


Could She Love Me?

by YukitenTheDark



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Amnesia, Amnesia from Trauma - Freeform, Babies, Blood, Comfort, Death, Did I mention death? - Freeform, Dwarves, Elves, F/M, Family, Friendship, Goblins, Human/Dwarf Hybrid - Freeform, Humanity, Humans, Hunting, Hybrid - Freeform, Injury, Line of Durin, Loss, Memories, Memory Loss, Murder, Murder for Pleasure - Freeform, Orcs, Pain, Pregnancy, Purpose, Rape, Romance, Sacrifice, Sadness, Sex, Spiders, Torture, Tragedy, Trauma, Violence, War, the ring - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-24
Updated: 2014-01-23
Packaged: 2018-01-09 19:53:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 21,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1150125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YukitenTheDark/pseuds/YukitenTheDark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four lives intertwine on a desperate quest across Middle-Earth to reclaim Erebor and defeat the Pale Orc who hunts their party, the memories of a scarred human woman ever eluding her, and the pain of an exiled Elf resting on his shoulders. A journey that starts with courage and pride will end with grief and loss... But there is hope, should they never falter in their quest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dwarven Royalty and Human Rubbish

**Author's Note:**

> I decided to post this up on here after posting it on FFN. Hope you guys enjoy it.

The first things he’d seen on her were her hair, long and dark like the strong arms of the night sky on a moonless night, and her eyes, soft and gentle like twilight, but as quick and sharp in movement as her hands with her bow.

The last things he’d seen were the two black arrows level with his nose, cold metal a hairs breadth from touching him, and the ferocity in her light eyes mingling with anger and confusion of a cause unknown to him.

His breath caught in his throat as he forced a nervous smile, his heart hammering away in his chest. If this were any other time, the fear creeping into his chest would be nonexistent, but it wasn’t and it was reaching its tiny, needle-fingers into the muscle slamming against his rib cage. The woman before him, bow drawn, fingers taught, and arrows ready to fly, had her twilight eyes fixed on him, calculating, taking in his Dwarven form.

At first, her nose wrinkled in mild disgust, the scent of his sweat and the iron of his blood wafting into her nose. Or perhaps it was just his mangy appearance that struck her? She showed no signs of revealing which, though she retreated a minor handful of inches, her bowstring as taught as her fingers.

‘Who are you?’ she hissed, her question more of an accusatory jeer than anything else, her voice akin to that of an angry Elf swinging his blade – light and quick. ‘And why is someone of your kind traveling near this river, hm?’

Of course, he did not respond, his eyes dropping from hers and coming to rest uncomfortably on the arrows she pointed in his direction. He didn’t respond out of disrespect, but out of fear, his life hanging in the balance given that his answers were ones she’d _appreciate_ , given her blatant show of disdain for _his kind_ , whatever that meant to a human such as herself.

‘I am but a humble dwarf,’ he offered, his voice as smooth and calm as he could muster.

‘That’s not enough,’ she snapped, the sound a beautiful echo of battle and her own fears. For a moment, her bow arm shook, leaving only seconds for him to take the bow from her, but fear crippled him. ‘Who are you?’ she pressed.

He bit his lip in defiance, furrowing his brows.

She stepped closer, her arrows returning to their original distance. She was in his face a second time and showed little sign of a second retreat. ‘Who are you?’ she demanded, thrusting her bow forward slightly, her face more twisted and agitated than before.

If it weren’t for those arrows gently grazing the bridge and tip of his nose, he wouldn’t have uttered a single word, let alone elicit a frightened huff.

‘Answer me, or so help me, my arrows will bury themselves into your skull!’ she threatened, her words dripping with a poison even the orcs would shrink away from.

But where was his Dwarven pride? Surely, it hadn’t abandoned him at a time like this… He eyed her like a hawk, searching for another brief show of weakness in her, his breaths evening with his heartbeat.

‘I am Kíli, a prince of Erebor,’ he said strongly, his crooked, nervous grin spread wide across his face. Of course, he would have to hammer himself into the ground – if he could escape this encounter with such a volatile woman alive – sometime later as punishment for revealing his identity, but it was either be honest or be a liar, and he had the feeling that this woman wouldn’t take kindly to a lie of any kind. ‘And I am simply looking for my kin. They should be around her somewhere, I’m sure of it.’

One of her eyebrows founds itself in a high arch, a look of both amusement and disbelief gracing her otherwise fierce features. ‘Dwarven royalty?’ she scoffed, a chuckle chasing her words. ‘Do you jest?’

‘No, no, I assure you, I am quite serious,’ he spluttered nervously, his grin widening in a mix fear and wonder at her reaction.

‘You can’t be serious.’ She stared at him carefully for a long moment, her gaze accusatory and suspicious. After that moment, she quickly retracted her bow and stuffed her arrows into the quiver hanging at her hips. She shook her head slowly and smiled, crossing her arms over her chest as a musical laughter spilled from her lips. ‘Fancy that, a Dwarven prince in the midst of lowly human rubbish.’

He watched her as she laughed in disbelief, shaking her head. _Lowly human rubbish, hm?_ He thought in silent wonder, curious as to what she could possibly mean by that.

The woman sobered and opened her eyes, giving an apologetic look to the dwarf. ‘I am deeply sorry for pointing my arrows at you, my lord,’ she started, holding her hands in front of her defensively, ‘Of course, had I known, I wouldn’t have bothered in the first place.’

‘Bothered to do what, string you’re bow, threaten to kill me?’ Kíli questioned, his eyebrow taking its own turn in arching.

‘I wouldn’t have bothered with you at all.’

‘Oh? A sad day it would’ve been for me then.’

‘Don’t try and flatter me, my lord. I don’t take kindly to it.’

‘I don’t imagine you taking kindly to much of anything,’ he snickered, a grin firmly planted on his face.

She shrugged her shoulders and chuckled at him, and at that moment, he noticed how thin she really was. Her cheeks were sunken in and her eyes were slightly puffy and pale underneath. Her worn armor hung on her like fish on a tattered line and her tiny fingers were all but bone, hair strung about her shoulders as if she hadn’t had the chance to wash in days. She was so thin and weak in appearance, a sympathetic groan left him.

But, at the same time, she was more than capable of hunting and feeding herself, bathing herself. As far as he was concerned, she had two legs and two arms and a seriously terrifying bow arm, all of which would serve her greatly if only she would hunt. If she could hold him in fear for his life, then she could certainly hold an animal down in fear of its life.

‘Or eating much, either,’ Kíli prodded gently.

She didn’t seem affected by what he said, turning her back on him as if to shrug him off.

‘What’s your name?’

There was a long silence then.

She shifted her weight uncomfortably where she stood, like she was nervous about revealing anything about herself as he had been earlier. He didn’t blame her, though he really wished she hadn’t held him at arrow-point. He wondered, briefly, where she’d come from. Perhaps she hailed from Gondor, or maybe even Rohan, but in his heart, he doubted both. If she were this far from home, she had a reason, as all women did. Perhaps she was a wandered, traveling from city to city, village to village. Or perhaps she was an exiled warrior or a rogue. All were possibilities, none were for certain.

He shook his head inwardly and shrugged it off. Perhaps, if he brought her along to Hobbiton with his brother, then, in time, she’d be able to tell him. Provided Thorin doesn’t rip him to pieces, that is. Still, it was an option worth considering given that she had an impeccable bow arm. If only he could see her hit her mark…

‘My name…’ she whispered, looking over her shoulder at him. Twilight eyes met his own and he found himself smiling, but she was serious. Not an ounce of amusement touched her eyes.

‘I don’t have one, Kíli of Erebor. I know not what it is.’

And with that, she vanished into the trees, leaving him with a childish concern for her.


	2. Mithrandir and Curiosity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to drop reviews, comment, or ratings. Whichever. I’m going to try and do the same. I will also be forcing myself to update at least once every day. Let’s hope it works. Anyway, I live off criticism, so go ahead and tell me what you think needs fixing – or what you like or don’t like. I’ll get it covered. Thank you! :) Also, the majority of the first few chapters will be fillers and introductions. I’m sorry.
> 
> This chapter is where I introduce the Elf mentioned in the summary. He’s a very talkative one, he is. I hope you all enjoy him. Annnnnnnd I threw in more Kíli. It’s a small part, though.

‘Ah, my dear Gandalf,’ Líthonion greeted, thrusting his arm forward to meet the old wizard’s, his other arm sliding around his shoulders. The wizard had suggested that they meet in Bree at the Prancing Pony; his decidedly official place of meeting with anyone, though he never understood why. And here they stood, right in front of Lithonion’s room. ‘How was the ride, Mithrandir?’

Líthonion released Gandalf’s hand, only to plant it firmly on the knob of his door, twist and push. As the door swung open, he guided his long-time friend into the small room, leading him to the single chair in front of the fire.

‘I imagine it was a rather cold one,’ he continued, a hint of amusement in his voice, the fire crackling between his words.

‘Ah, yes, indeed it was. The rains in the north did not help me any,’ the wizard chuckled, resting his staff against the wall behind him, pulling off his pointed gray hat and setting it on the corner of his chair to dry. By the looks of his old friend, he did not seem to be soaked, but he _was_ a wizard and he _did_ ride a speedy pony.

Líthonion chuckled to himself. ‘I can’t imagine it would! It is rain, after all.’

‘No, no, never,’ Gandalf said, amused.

He was quite curious as to why he’d requested that they meet in Bree, as Gandalf almost always only decided on this place when there was a _quest_ in the works – and the old wizard was a lover of instigation, stirring the pot. Of course, he never got the ball rolling _himself_. He merely whispered a few words, acquired a few items, and gave a little nudge out of the door. He may be old, but he fancies himself a good adventure every now and then.

But then, why would Gandalf call upon Líthonion, if not to bargain for his assistance on this _quest_? He supposed his Elven blood played a part in it. Given that he grew up in Lóthlorien, he was taught to do many things, most concerning the arts and the rest had hardly anything to do with archery or swordplay, but what he _did_ learn was as valuable as it could possible get in Middle Earth, as giant spiders and orcs tended to lurk in the forests in these recent months. His skills, proving most useful, were quite possibly the only things the wizard needed from him. It made a bit of sense. He was old and could use all the help he could get. Or, perhaps his companions would need it.

And he would willingly give it.

‘Any word from Iúlwen?’ Gandalf questioned suddenly, his tired eyes finding his own.

‘Iúlwen?’ He was puzzled, mulling her name about in his mind, trying to think of any reason his old friend would find cause to ask about her. The human woman was that without a memory, a twisted creature hiding in the trees and evading the eyes of watchful travelers, warriors, merchants. There were rumors floating about this town of a woman armed with black arrows and a worn, red yew bow, threatening and, sometimes, killing any who wandered into her _territory_. Those who survived seemed to have either gone about their business or turned to warn other travelers. He’d over heard the barkeep blubbering on with a fat, bearded man just that morning. There must’ve been a more recent offense, as he seriously doubted the rumor’s age. Though, this had little to do with a reason for bringing her up.

‘Mithrandir, why would I hear from her? She has not left the wood across the river. There are rumors, but little more.’

He knew her well, as they had once been great friends, but now, given these rumors, he may as well as never known her at all. He hadn’t seen her in three years.

Líthonion met her when she was just a mere babe, twenty-four years ago this day. He watched as she grew from a tiny thing to a well-kept young lady, and from there, he was her mentor and she his apprentice. She was eight when she fell into his care and he taught her to the best of his own ability, teaching her everything his mother and father had taught him when he was young – and she took to it like a fish to water. In little more than two years, she had nearly matched him in physical ability, but he was still faster. His speed forced her to try harder and, months later, she would beat him there. He’d been proud of her for exceling so quickly and opted to take her out on hunting expeditions, even patrols, and she’d grown to become a very fine, young warrior. He could remember her fifteenth birthday, a day it was to behold. From the wolf she’d slain weeks before, he’d fashioned her a cloak and dyed it red, spinning wool into a second layer to keep her warm. Gold threads were sewn in as feather-like designs from the shoulders to the hem and, as a second gift, into vines around the collar of her leather breast plate. When he’d given them to her, her smile was wide and full of gratitude. From that day forward, she was admired by all in her human village as a hunter, a warrior, as a _woman_.

But she clearly was no longer that person.

‘Líthonion, my old friend, she is a wounded bird,’ Gandalf started, his eyes returning to the vibrant fire before him. ‘And it just so happens that she’s a useful one.’

He was silent for a moment. ‘As useful as she may be, the danger she poses is ten times greater, Gandalf.’

He laughed warmly, peeling himself out of the chair. ‘So it would seem. We will go out and look for her in the morning. I suggest you be ready by then.’

‘Yes, Mithrandir.’ Líthonion thought for a moment. ‘Won’t you explain?’

‘In time, mellon. In time, you will see.’

 

**~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~**

 

It had been a little over an hour since he’d started following her, his slight concern and curiosity taking hold of him, and the sun was starting to touch the distant mountains on the horizon, painting the sky with pinks, purples, and oranges. The moon and stars would grace the skies with their light, shining down on his path and leading him to the woman he sought – and perhaps back to camp, as well.

His eyes darted about him, taking in the dim colors of the trees around him, as he pressed forward. He was careful to look in all the darkest places; ducking into the brush, he checked inside the bushes, above in the trees, in the holes in the ground, under and over tree roots. But all he could see was the dimming sunlight leaving the pines, drooping further behind the mountains, his shadow mingling with the oncoming darkness. A frown spread across Kíli’s face.

As curious as he was concerning this woman, getting back to his bedroll beside the fire would be the best option. He supposed he could keep watch for her during the rest of the ride to Hobbiton, look about him in the trees and undergrowth. He doubted he’d be able to spot her (she _was_ an elusive creature), but it surely wouldn’t hurt to try. Besides, she’d been so thin…

 _And human. And quite the violent thing. And…_ scary.

A slight shiver ran through him as he recalled the two arrows mere breaths from his face – and the wicked expression backing them. She’d been terrifying. If it weren’t for his honesty, he’d be dead. Truly and utterly dead. Pushing daisies. Or maybe not. She seemed more terrified of him than he was of her; otherwise, perhaps she wouldn’t have been so…intense. Perhaps.

‘Or, she might’ve just been defending what she thought was her territory,’ he mused aloud, opting to go the way he had come. The dwarf spun on his booted heel and started back down the path, keeping his eyes level with the end of it.

He’d see her again before too long, he decided.  


	3. A Hobbit's Refusal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter will contain scenes from the book. You must understand that I’m using scenes directly from the book, as I have it right here. If this bothers anyone, I can remedy that, but my goal is to stick true to the story. Extraordinarily so. I claim nothing but my two characters. Everything else is owned by the lovely J. R. R. Tolkein. Bow down to him and only him! 
> 
> How’s Lithonion faring, readers? Is he doing well? I should hope so. And how about Iúlwen? There isn’t too much I want to share about her just yet. But don’t worry! There’ll be a point where she is talked about more, I promise. So, for now, have some more Líthonion and Gandalf – oh, and Bilbo. Oh, and I do apologize for the severe lack of the accents in the Elvish. 
> 
> Enjoy!

Of course, fifteen miles worth of traveling and they never saw an inch of her. There was no flash of the tattered red cape Lithonion had bestowed upon her years ago. There were no black arrows tearing into the butt of his pony, nor the dirt road beneath him, and there certainly weren’t any tiny women threatening him or Gandalf.

As confident as the wizard had been, the Elf wasn’t so sure anymore.

They were on the road to Hobbiton and, a fact that caused Líthonion to sigh quite often, the lush trees shook with a wind hurdling through the air, ruffling his hair and his cloak. The force of it made him uncomfortable and he felt as if a darkness was touching him, tendrils wrapping him around like he were being taken prisoner. A shiver ran through him and he shifted in his saddle, his pony providing nothing of a reaction, his dull gray eyes narrowing upon the sway of the trees above.

But he saw nothing out of the ordinary. No wicked arms of darkness, no evil creature lurking in the shadows.

‘I sense your worry, Master Elf,’ Gandalf boomed from behind, a quiet hint of amusement in his voice, and Líthonion sensed that the wizard had not felt the darkness.

‘Did you not feel it, that darkness on the wind?’ he questioned, cocking his head over his shoulder to look at his old friend, his eyebrows raised. ‘The horses didn’t seem too bothered by it, either.’

‘It is there,’ he bellowed, ignoring the elf’s latter comment, shaking the reigns to get his pony to move faster, the creature galloping to stride beside Líthonion and his horse.

‘But only just, hm?’ the elf garbled, turning his head forward again. ‘My dear Gandalf, you’re a confusing sort.’

He laughed warmly and heartily, but said nothing more.

The light clopping of their horses’ hooves and the whipping of the wind, the leaves and grasses swaying and the pebbles clapping together in the path as they pressed on, were all that could be heard now. The Elf looked about himself once more, eyeing the expanse of road before them. It seemed to go on for miles and miles without a sign of ending – or forking, for that matter. There weren’t any signs sticking out of the dirt, nor were there any other travelers making their way to the text town. There were simply trees and dirt…and more dirt.

Líthonion’s horse gave a small whinnie, drawing his attention from the thoughts of the long, long road. He nearly chuckled, instead opting for a small smile, thankful for the start-up of a new conversation. He looked down at her gray mane, the hairs long and brushed, muttering something of a greeting, and reached down to pat her neck, the muscles taught under his palm. Her black fur was soft and clean, he noticed, but the gray flecks and ashen hair made her look like the walking aftermath of a dragon attack in the North. She grunted at his touch and bobbed her head, as if she knew what he’d thought.

‘Well, Master Elf, we will find ourselves approaching Hobbiton in just a few hours,’ said Gandalf, a sigh leaving him, ‘provided we kick our ponies into a gallop.’

 

**~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~**

The sun had risen to its full height above the restless farms of Hobbiton, shining down upon the busy hobbits. The fields and hills were a green unlike any other and the trees here and there bore fruits – and little hobbit children, too! They swung from the branches and climbed higher and higher without fear, leaping into the hay pile meant only for the cattle and pigs grazing below, laughing and shouting at each other with joy and excitement.

As the children played, a curious hobbit, wielding nil but a long wooden pipe, came right through his green door with the brass handle and sat himself on the bench just outside his home after feasting on his breakfast. His pipe was lit and his smile was wide, kicking his wooly feet slowly in his spot. 

And all that the unsuspecting Bilbo Baggins saw that morning was an old man with a staff and an elf with two ponies in tow. The old man had a tall pointed gray hat, a long gray cloak, a silver scarf over which his long white beard hung down below his waste, and immense black boots. The elf, clinging to the reigns of their ponies, had on him a dark blue cloak which covered all but his hands, long black hair going beyond his shoulders, and very dull eyes. The poor hobbit was puzzled, wondering what an elf could possibly be doing in Hobbiton.

‘Good morning!’ the hobbit said. It was far from a bad one, what with the sun shining and the grass being green. But Gandalf gazed at him from under his long bushy eyebrows and the elf merely ignored him, focused, clearly, on his surroundings.

‘What do you mean?’ the wizard said. ‘Do you wish me a good morning, or do you mean that it is a good morning whether I want it or not; or that you feel good this morning; or that it is a morning to be good on?’

The elf kept silent, his eyes now falling upon the curled mop of hair atop the hobbit’s head, to which he felt slightly unsettling.

‘Erm, all of them at once,’ Bilbo answered, taking another puff on his pipe. ‘ _And_ also a very fine morning to have a bit of pipe tobacco outside, and if you’ve got a pipe about you, sit down and have a fill of mine! There’s no hurry, I hope. We’ve all the day before us!’ Then Bilbo drew in a stream of smoke from his pipe and blew out a beautiful ring of gray smoke, watching as it flew through the air without breaking.

‘Very nice,’ said Gandalf, ‘but I have no time to blow smoke-rings this morning. I am looking for someone to share in an adventure I am arranging, and it’s very difficult to find anyone.’

Bilbo noticed the elf giving a slight shake of his head and his eyes narrow on Gandalf’s, the sight containing a small bit of hilarity. The hobbit had to bite his tongue to keep himself from chuckling.

‘I should think so – especially in these parts. We are plain, quiet folk and have no use for adventures. Nasty, disturbing, uncomfortable things! Make you late for dinner! I can’t imagine what anybody sees in them,’ said our Mr. Baggins and he stuck a thumb behind his braces, and blew out another wide smoke-ring. Then he took out his morning mail and started to read, pretending to take no more notice of the wizard standing before him. He decided he was nothing of the sort the old man wanted and wanted him to go away, but he did not move. He stood behind the gate to Bilbo’s yard, leaning on his staff, until Bilbo grew quite uncomfortable and maybe, just maybe, even a little cross.

‘Good morning!’ he said finally. He had to make his point! ‘We don’t want any adventures here, thank you! You might like to try over The Hill and across The Water.’ Of course, this meant that the conversation was over. Good day. End of story.

‘You use quite a lot of things for _Good morning_!’ shouted Gandalf. ‘You mean to be rid of me, and it won’t be good till I move off.’

The elf laughed quietly at their bickering, continuing to pat the horses, his eyes veering away from the tiny hobbit. And, for the first time during this exchange, he spoke. ‘My dear Gandalf, he only jests!’

But the wizard wasn’t sold.

‘Not at all, not at all, my good sir! In fact, I don’t think I even know your name!’ Bilbo said to Gandalf, disagreeing strongly with the elf chuckling away at the horses’ sides.

‘Yes, yes, my dear sir! I know your name as you quite know mine, Mr. Baggins,’ Gandalf argued. ‘Though you don’t remember that it belongs it me. I am Gandalf and Gandalf means me! To believe that I could be _good morninged_ by Belladonna Took’s son, as if I’d been selling buttons at the door!’

‘Gandalf, Gandalf! Dear me, not the Gandalf that snuck lads and lasses quietly into the Blue for mad adventures? Anything from climbing trees to visit the elves – or sailing ships, sailing to other shores! Life used to be quite inter – I mean, you have caused quite the upset in the past in these parts. Beg your pardon, but I had not realized you were still in business.’

‘Yes, where else should I be?’ said the wizard. ‘Indeed, for you old grandfather Took’s sake, and for the sake of poor Belladonna, I will give you what you asked for.

‘I beg your pardon, I did not ask for anything!’

‘Yes, you have! Twice now. My pardon, I give it to you. In fact, I will go so far as to send you on this adventure. Very amusing for me, very profitably for you – that is, if you ever got over it.’

‘Surely you don’t mean to bring a hobbit along, Mithrandir. He is a small creature,’ the elf whispered to the wizard, his palm patting the gray pony’s neck. ‘He doesn’t want to come along, either. Leave him at peace.’

‘Precisely why I’ve requested he come with us, Líthonion!’ Gandalf shouted, turning his fierce old eyes in the direction of the elf, which earned him little more than an arch of an eyebrow. The elf – Líthonion, was it? – seemed rather unaffected by the wizard’s tone, to which Bilbo admittedly shrunk slightly into his bench.

‘That doesn’t answer my question, Gandalf.’

‘We will speak of this later,’ and, much quieter, ‘when everyone else has come.’

Líthonion narrowed his eyes briefly before giving a slow nod and Bilbo cleared his throat.

‘I quite agree with your companion! Take me nowhere. I wish not to take part in any of this, er, adventuring! Now, good morning! If you’d like to come to tea, come tomorrow. Good bye!’ the hobbit hooted, leaping from his bench and scurrying to his round green door with the brass handle, closing it behind him as quickly as he could without seeming rude.

But still, Gandalf and Líthonion stood just outside the hobbit’s hole, laughing in quiet bouts. The elf looked at Gandalf and then to the green door, then back again. He was curious as to why he wished to enlist the company of Mr. Baggins, trusting he had a logical reason for it, but still wishing to know. It was odd. A hobbit on an understandably dangerous quest? And who was _everyone else_? The elf shot Gandalf another look, puzzled.

The wizard nodded shortly and, after a moment, stepped right up to Bilbo’s door. He flipped his staff and pointed to the bottom with its point, drawing a rather strange Dwarven rune into the emerald green paint. Then he turned and sped off down the path, clinging to his staff.

Líthonion let his eyes fall to the faintly glowing rune, his brows furrowing in disbelief and, above all, _disapproval_. Dwarves! Dwarves were to be the majority of their company? Dwarves! An irate and quiet hiss left the elf’s lips. He couldn’t hardly believe it! Gandalf would get an earful from him, if it’s the last thing he does, he swore. What would dwarves be doing on this journey? They’re dirty, greedy creatures, they are. And they’re foolish, too!

‘Come along, Master Elf. Before they arrive,’ Gandalf yelled from further along.

His eye twitched and a frown came across his face as he turned on his heel with the horses.


	4. A Chance Meeting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who’s ready to meet the lovely Iúlwen – this time, on her own? Hmmmm? Mostly her, maybe a short part with someone else too. Well, this is what this chapter will be all about. But you’ll just have to see. Also, she doesn’t know her name, so this entire chapter, she will be referring to herself as, well, she. Contains parts from the book. It’s also extra-long (it’s 8 pages in 11pt font) because I missed yesterday.
> 
> I own nothing but my characters. The rest belongs to Tolkien.
> 
> Imbolc and Yuletide blessings to you all!

She’d been tracking them for miles, longing to know just who these dwarves scattered about the road in the forest truly were and, when she found one _doing his business_ alone and unknowing, she charged him with her arrows, the tips lightly grazing the skin on his face. He’d been a handsome fellow, she was willing to admit, shaking in his boots before her like a frightened mouse caught in a cat’s trap. He had a beard, as all dwarfs do, but his was scruffy and dark like his hair, a cascade of blackness reaching beyond his shoulders, and his eyes are dark and hooded, weary from travel, and he was tall – for a dwarf, perhaps four-foot-eight. He was dressed head-to-toe in extravagant dark leathers, which backs what he’d told her of himself.

She chuckled quietly to herself.

A _handsome_ , young, Dwarven man and she were lucky enough to _meet_ him!

Of course, he went and asked her who she was, and that was crueler than anything she could have done to him. Because, well, she had no rightly idea who she was. She had no name, no memories, no friends, and no family. Nothing. Well, besides the armor hanging from her skin and the cape around her neck, the knife in her boot, the sword and quiver at her hips, and the bow strapped to her back. But other than what she was equipped with, she had no knowledge of her former self – and it had been like this for a few years now. How many, she hardly knew, but it did not make much of a difference to her for, she was nothing now.

The only thing she could’ve managed to piece together about herself was that she had been a hunter or, perhaps, a warrior, defending her human village, feeding her human comrades. A respected one at that, given her otherwise intricate and well-made armor and weapons. But that was all. _That was it_. Beyond her profession, there was nothing else she could figure out. It was almost as if something were shrouding her memories in a thick, unending cloud, heavy and unforgiving. She could not break through it, nor had she bothered in these recent years. Nothing she’d seen or done had triggered a memory to spring forth and allow her to remember it.

Nothing.

She shook her head in frustration, her light eyes shut tightly.

It was unfortunate, being unable to remember anything. It was unfortunate, having no knowledge of her family, her past. _It was unfortunate not knowing_ why.

And, maybe, that was what bothered her most.

Her heartbeat picked up and she slowly placed a gloved hand over it, the muscle pulsing uncomfortably in her chest. Although the beat was steady, it was quick and almost painful, hammering against her rib cage as if it were trying to burst from her chest. She let out a quiet breath, trying to calm herself, and dropped into a crouch in the grass, her other hand firm in the green to steady her body.

When she’d calmed, she opened her eyes and took in her surroundings, opting to ignore her ever elusive memories.

There were trees, of course, tall ones and short ones, pines and oaks, all wrought with age and the sadness of what they’d seen in their long lives. Some branches were snapped and others were clawed by bears and other such creatures. The leaves and pine needles were bright and soft greens, thrilled by the springtime blooms, and defied their age. Small animals – squirrels and rabbits – bounced about in the berry bushes and some climbed the trees. Deer and elk could be seen far off in a clearing a hundred yards away, the dim light of the sun playing its shadow. The soft chirping of songbirds and the hooting of owls waking from their slumber were all that could be heard, their wings flapping about as they flew from branch to branch, searching for their nests. The sky was a blanket of darkness, the setting sun leaving purples and oranges as it sank behind the ceaseless forest, and stars were starting to shine, sprinkling the endless midnight blue.

Before too long, there would be little light and she would be otherwise unable to keep moving – or to find a decent place to sleep.

She had to move, run, if need be. And she had to rest.

With her heart reclaimed and her decision made, she pushed herself to stand and looked about her, searching for a sturdy branch to climb. There were none. She frowned and started walking. She knew right well that she would find one later, perhaps a few yards ahead. She sighed, stepping over a thick tree root sticking up through the grass, listening to the birds chirp and the rabbits and squirrels chitter as the darkness of the night ensued.

And then, oddly, she’d thought of the handsome dwarf and what his purpose might’ve been.

Perhaps he was traveling from Erebor or the Iron Hills – a great distance it would’ve been – to visit an old friend in the Shire. No, no, that couldn’t be right. He could’ve been on his way to the coast. But why would he cut through a dangerous forest such as this to get there? Or, maybe he could’ve been searching for the rest of his company. There was one dwarf accompanying him and he, too, was a fair sight to see. His hair was golden and he had a full, braided beard, unlike _Kíli_. He carried with him a modicum of blades, some short and others long, tucked into his tunic and trousers, and thick fur covered him. His leathers were the same in extravagance, though not as dark and of quite a different set of colors. He was a funny one, too, and often made jokes as they traveled. He came close to catching her following them, though his suspicion was dropped the moment they’d discovered a place to rest.

She chuckled quietly.

Either way, these dwarves were traveling west and were definitely far, far from home. Whatever their purpose was, she knew not their true plight, whatever that might’ve been, and had taken to following them for a while. Of course, when she’d cornered Kíli like a rat, that was her one and only chance to ask and, when she did, she didn’t get much of an answer. Simply his name and place of origin, nothing else. She could have bled him for information, but she doubted any of what he would’ve told her would be close to the truth. She allowed for his name and left it at that, though she wished she’d have asked more.

Then, maybe, she would’ve had a memory triggered or, maybe, made a friend.

Of course, that was highly unlikely given what she’d done.

Another low chuckle left her as she thought, pressing forward. After what felt like moments, she noticed the sun had gone behind the trees completely, and the light chirps of the birds had quieted. The forest creatures had readied themselves for bed and, additionally, were packed in tight masses in their nests.

Sometimes, nature was a kind and beautiful—

Not far off, the snap of a twig resounded and, as quick as lightning, her red-hilted sword was drawn and her dagger was in-hand. It could’ve been nothing, a mouse scuttling over to its family, but she wasn’t willing to take the chance. Because, contrary to the tiny feet of a tiny mouse, the sound was flat and seemed to stem from something of a much larger size. Her eyes darted to where the sound originated and narrowed, seeing nothing out of the ordinary. Still, she crouched low in the grass, staring at the spot a few yards away from her.

She waited.

And waited.

And waited.

But nothing moved, nothing came forward, nothing retreated. Perhaps, whatever it was found what it was looking for, dove into its burrow, climbing into its bundled family to keep warm while the temperatures dropped. She let out a quiet sigh and stuffed her dagger into the sheath in her boot, rising once more to continue walking and, as she did so, sheathed her red-hilted sword. As she went to take her first step, little more than half a moment passed, an arrow whistled past her, the disturbed air touching her cheek. The arrow sunk into the dirt under the grass with a soft _thunk_ and she went to draw her sword, her dagger kicked into her hand.

She looked all around her, her light eyes flitting from branch to branch, bush to bush, shadow to shadow, in a desperate search for where the arrow could’ve possibly come from. The fact someone would dare to aim at her… She let out a silent hiss. How dare they!

‘Come out!’ she howled, frustration in her voice, her heart beating fast. ‘Show yourself, you coward!’

And out of the shadows directly in front of her came the most unlikely creature imaginable, in her eyes, of course. It was an elf, his bow drawn and his fingers taught, dressed in dark leathers with hair to match. His skin was far too pale and his eyes were tired and irritated, as if he’d been searching, hunting for something tirelessly… She bit her lip and readied herself, the ferocity in his eyes unmistakable. He was an angry fellow and something dark and familiar was tucked deep in his eyes.

What exactly, she would have to ask some time later. After she’d defeated him.

‘Iúlwen,’ he snapped, ‘I’ve been seeking you, and look what you’ve become.’

His eyes wandered her body like they would a map and his lips pulled into a snarl.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?!’ She felt more than a little uncomfortable, her blades tight in her grip, and what was that name he shouted? Iúlwen? That couldn’t possibly be her name! She didn’t have one. She was a nameless face, a woman without a purpose. How could such a name as that possibly belong to _her_? She scowled at him, sensing the tiniest hint of truth in his voice.

‘You’re a murderer, Iúlwen! You follow anyone who dares to enter your forest, and you kill them for their trespassing,’ the elf garbled, his feet slowly coming forward, stepping over tree roots and into grass patches. He was unafraid.

She frowned deeply. This was true, though, not entirely. Her eyes were like daggers as she stared at him, her brows furrowed and her teeth bared. How would someone of his ilk know this? She was a shadow in this forest and only harmed those who abused the Old Forest, west of Bree. She killed those who rightly deserved it – men who pillaged villages and raped women, any orc or goblin trudging through. But never had she harmed anyone else! Men who were merchants, hobbits who were simply traveling to Buckland, and certainly not elves, if she saw them! She glared at this offending elf.

‘A murderer?’ she boomed. ‘A murderer, he says! And what would this one know about it?’

He let his arrow fly but she cut it down with her sword as quickly as it had been released. The elf fished into his quiver and drew his bow once more.

‘I need not know a thing! But you need to be stopped. Countless men have died by your hand, Iúlwen, and countless more will fall if anyone allows you to continue this folly!’

Another arrow flew but, this time, she wasn’t so quick to smack it down. She let it fly and braced herself for it to hit her, but it didn’t. A sharp pain came onto her cheek and she let out a brief, pained hiss. It grazed her skin. Blood started to slip down her cheek from the tiny wound and she glared at the elf more intensely, angry and displeased.

He wounded her. Albeit, it was a small wound, but it was a wound nonetheless and it would _not_ go unpunished.

She would rush him, pin him against a tree, plunge her blade into his chest, and be done with the situation entirely. But she did not expect what the elf would say next.

‘You have to come with me, Iúlwen,’ he began, his voice softer, ‘Gandalf requires your assistance and you require your memories, do you not?’

How could he possibly have known? _How_? She eyed him carefully and, after a moment, let her arms fall to her sides. But in no way would she let her guard down around a stranger. She’d be damned if the elf got the best of her. She’d be _damned_ if she fell. She hissed inwardly. How could she be defeated by an elf spouting nonsense? She couldn’t and wouldn’t, and that’s the end of the story.

She squinted, her cheek stinging.

‘Come with _you_?’ she wondered aloud. ‘All because an old wizard needs me for some otherwise _unknown_ …thing? Do you take me for a fool?’

‘Actually, yes, I do,’ the elf said, his voice stern. ‘For only a fool murders for the sake of murdering.’

She twitched and took a single step toward him. She would approach him slowly enough for him to not notice, keep her blades at her sides until the last possible moment, and then she would strike him. She was growing tired of his accusatory banter, bored even. She took one more step.

‘Explain yourself, elf.’

He was silent for a moment, looking for the words, she supposed.

‘My name is Líthonion – and I raised you,’ he said quietly, then louder, ‘and I did _not_ raise you to be this way!’

‘How could you have raised me? I am human and you, you’re an elf!’

She said what first came to mind, loud and thunderous. This elf was quite getting on her nerves, spouting even more nonsense than before. What’s this about him raising her as if he were a parent? She had no family, no friends. The elf was spitting lies. He had to be. She glared at him, sure of his lying and her grip tightened around the hilts of her blades.

‘How could I have raised you?’ he scoffed, pulling his bowstring the tiniest bit farther back. ‘Enough of your prejudice, Iúlwen. You know better. I _taught_ you better, as I _taught_ you many things. I taught you song and dance, how to skin an animal, how to _fight_. I took you hunting in the White Mountains! I _made_ you that cloak you have tied around your neck!’

For a moment, she thought his bowstring would snap, he’d pulled it so far back. She wasn’t afraid of what would happen once he released his arrow, nor, really, did she care. She was far too irate, too uncomfortable to feel much of anything towards the prospect of an arrow in her chest. Of course, she had at one point moments earlier, but now, not a single ounce of her feelings were spared for the arrow drawn.

And then, she grew angrier, the idea that this elf who supposedly raised her had been gone all this time crawling under her skin. How could he be boasting about all he’d done for her while being cut out of her life for what seemed to be an even longer period of time? How could he have raised her and then not have been there to remind her of her memories earlier? She growled inwardly, forsaking him. She could not accept his words for they came from a liar. Her eyes narrowed.

‘You lie,’ she spat quietly, taking a small step forward. She would resume her plan.

And she would have him on his _knees_ , begging for her to end it while he bled out into the grass.

‘Why would I lie to you, Iúlwen? You are my kin,’ Líthonion said softly, but his fierce expression remained. He was confident, she knew, that she would give in to him, but she would refuse. She would not bow down to any elf claiming kinship. At least, not now.

She took another small step.

‘Yet you say it all wearing a mask of anger!’ she shouted, her brows furrowing. ‘How can you tell me I am your kin without a tiny bit of softness in your eyes?’

His eyes narrowed and, as though he did not mean to, let his third arrow fly, its white wood burying itself in her chest. She was right after all, the searing pain blooming into a flower of weakly dripping blood. At first, she had not acknowledged its presence in her body, opting instead to put her feet into motion. Launch herself at the elf, take him over. She had to bury her dagger in his chest, but not with an arrow planted in her own. A sigh of pain left her and her knees buckled underneath her, the blades in her hands now flat in the dirt. It was strange, this pain. It had been a long time since anything had hurt her like this. She’d almost forgotten what it felt like. To think she’d _let_ him take her down…

She laughed at herself in her mind.

The expression that came over him was that of shock, as if he truly had not meant to hurt her. It also looked like he was thoughtful about it, not entirely sure how to react, like he was fighting some internal battle. And _she_ was the fool? She scowled at him, her face scrunched up from the pain. Hot blood was dripping all over her and this elf was just staring at her, confused and frustrated all at once. Her vision started to blur and he did nothing. She even wobbled. It wasn’t that her wound was bleeding heavily. It was more along the lines of the flow being steady and painful. She really had forgotten what it feels like to hurt, with this arrow buried in her chest, specifically the top of her sternum.

In part because she had never felt an arrow inches from her heart, the life in her waiting to evaporate, her dreams passing before her eyes, her heart beating as fast as it possibly could. Never had she felt this. Her heart was slamming against her ribcage with all its might, her blood racing and her blood rushing through the hole in her body and to her face as anger and disappointment hit her. This fool of an elf would have her dead. He’d yet to move, as if afraid of something. His face wouldn’t stop changing. His eyes were wide. After his big speech for all he’d done for her, he would let her die? Because of his mistake? Even if he were telling an ounce of the truth, surely he wouldn’t have shot her, surely he wouldn’t have let himself do it. But he did. And here she was, her eyes dropping to look into dirt, bleeding out like a stuck pig.

She cursed her luck.

And then quickly took it back given that she’d threatened a dwarf and wanted to fight the elf frozen in front of her collapsed frame.

Her hair fell into her face and a bead of sweat rolled down her cheek, the pain in her chest sharp and unending. It was so strange and so…painful. Her throat was starting to close as a knot formed, tears welling up.

Was she going to die, then?

She couldn’t speak.

Her eyes shut and she let herself fall to her side, the blood loss pushing her into unconsciousness.

Líthonion was beside himself with shame. He’d allowed himself to do this to the woman he raised like his own and for what, something she believed to be morally sound, something he felt toward himself? His eyes dropped from where she had previously knelt to where she laid now, the grass stained with her blood. And he allowed for this to happen. But, if only she’d have listened! Listened to what? He called her out. He didn’t warn her. Yes, he did. He must’ve! But not about anything that was truly relevant, not about her putting a stop to her killing. He frowned at himself and strapped his bow to his back, deciding it best he need not use it again, and approached her bleeding body. How he hated himself at this moment… As best he could, he knelt beside her and scooped her up in arms quickly so as not to make her wound worse. He adjusted her to fit in his arms and, with a great amount of self-loathing, he carried her through the wood, weaving over, under, and between the trees, avoiding potholes and  tree roots.

It was no easy task, carrying her. She was injured – by him. How could he? How could he do that to his _kin_? The little human child he took under his wing? He set his jaw and, when his gray pony was in sight, he rushed over to her, a breathless Iúlwen bleeding in his arms. He was guilty and he would make this right, even if it took him another hour to get back to Hobbiton, to Bilbo’s home. And then he remembered Gandalf’s words. He’d requested that Iúlwen be taken along in the adventure, as little as the dwarves would like it, but now that she was injured where she was, he doubted many a thing about it. It would take her some time to heal before he got there. Say, a few weeks. At least, to heal completely. But then, how much danger could they possibly get in before they reached Rivendell?

He shook his head to clear it, reaching his gray pony, who eagerly came to him once she saw him peel himself out of the shadows. Líthonion slowly lowered the unconscious human and laid her flat on the ground. The arrow in her chest would prove difficult during the ride back to Hobbiton. His eyes fell to where the arrow had sunk in and put one of his hands at the base of it, wrapping the other around the shaft. He was going to have to pull it quickly and plug it up before the bleeding worsened. So, he did. With all his strength, Líthonion drew the arrow out of her chest, tossing it into the grass, and placed his hand right over hit, relieved that she showed no signs of awakening. And worried. He set his jaw and dug into a satchel at his belt, pulling out a thick handkerchief and stuffing it into the hole. His arms went underneath her and he lifted her once more, leaning her over on the horses back as he hopped into the saddle. With much adjustment, he pushed her forward a little, her head leaning against the spot halfway up the horse’s neck. She would be safe and secure there until they reached Hobbiton. A sigh left him and his eyes shot upwards into the darkness above, praying to the gods that she be okay by the time he got them to where they were headed. She had to escape this encounter unscathed, otherwise he would never forgive himself. A sigh left him and he pat his pony’s neck in disappointment.

‘Noro lim, mellon, noro lim,’ he commanded quietly, her ears swiveling. She bobbed her head as if to say she understood and, with a small pull on the reigns, she sped off in the direction of the road to Hobbiton.

 


	5. Of Dreams and Dwarves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, and this chapter is the first part of a two-part set.
> 
> So, how was the last chapter, loves? In last chapter’s author’s note, I put ‘This will contain scenes from the book.’ I meant to make the chapter longer but, given what transpired between Líthonion and Iúlwen, I figured it best not to add anything more. That being said, this chapter will contain scenes from the book and/or the movie, depending on which is more easily written. Also, I will note that while there are five chapters, all of them have taken place in the space of a day.
> 
> I do not own ANYTHING but my two characters, Líthonion and Iúlwen. Everything else belongs to Tolkien.

_The grip of Iúlwen’s longbow fit perfectly in her palm as she tore it off the iron rack hanging from the wall opposite her bed and, for a short moment, she marveled in its make. Its limbs were dyed red and quite matched her height. Etched into the limbs were golden yellow feathers and vines twisting down into the grip – which was thick, maroon leather – and the bowstring was red, the knock a small ball of silver, contrasting oddly with the otherwise primarily red coloring. She’d made this bow with the help of her father only a few months before today and she was lucky enough to go on a hunting expedition with him and the elf he’d taken in, her teacher and friend, Líthonion. Needless to say, she was excited, looking forward to the moment she’d finally be able to use this bow._

_A smile pulled at her lips._

_She was only fifteen, but she was determined to make herself proud – and, of course, her parents._

_In her village, Fréa, named after the first lady, her family had reigned as lords and ladies for centuries, their source of pride being the adept hunters tracking down wolves as far as the western-most point of the River Isen and the warriors guarding the gates from any wandering groups of orcs, and their power stemming from a long accepted rumor that they were descendants of Númenor. Of course, that was assuredly a very false prospect. Her family shared not an ounce of blood with the elves. However, they typically enlisted the help of an elf – even a passing dwarf – turned away by his own people to train budding hunters, warriors, and craftsmen every few years, earning their village a nickname akin to that of the Isle of Misfits. They’d been doing this since the building of Fréa, as they needed all the help they could get during the harsh winters. There were few who were able to hunt and even less who could craft. So, the great lord of that time opened his doors to the wanderers in exile and, with time, his people grew._

_Which, of course, led to this day._

_Iúlwen next made a grab for the quiver slung over the corner of the iron rack and quickly tied it around her waist, excitement bubbling in her chest. It was her first hunting trip! With her bow in hand and her arrows attached, she turned on her heel and bolted through the blackwood doorway of her room. She stopped short in the hallway, her brows furrowing. She was supposed to be heading into the square to meet with the gathering hunters. Or was she supposed to get to the armory (everyone’s hunting bows were stored their) at the far-east end of the Great Hall (the house where the lords, ladies, and their families always lived)?_

_Her eyes shot left, spotting servant girls in delicate robes sweeping the floors and hanging pelts of various animals, then to the right, spotting more servant girls at work and the flutter of a cape disappearing around a corner. The fabric was a vibrant blue and the nervous giddiness in her chest returned. That was her father’s cape! If she followed him, then she’d surely find the hunters! A wide smile stretched across her face and she took off, one boot in front of the other. She wove between the busy servants, darting down the long hall like a warg chasing its next meal. She passed large paintings of scenes of the War of the Last Alliance and her forefathers, all of which were things she paid little mind to. History was something she had no interest in, opting instead to pull her bowstrings. Approaching the corner, she slid on her heels and nearly fell, her breath hitching in her throat as she caught herself on the wood._

_That was close. After all that training the last seven years she was still clumsy._

_She wanted to laugh at herself, but the diminishing form of her father signaled that she would be late if she did. Regaining her balance, she took off down this next hallway, doing her best to keep her father in sight. At the end of the hall, there was a bright light and a soft breeze made its way to her, sending a small shiver down her spine. There were no servants in this hall, nor any paintings, only doors on either side of her. She had but a few more yards to go and then she would be outside, thrown into the crowd of overjoyed hunters. This was an honor, she remembered, to be taken on a hunting expedition in the White Mountains. Especially since the lord of Fréa would be in the company. She would do him proud. She had to._

_She reached the doorway in time, but his cape was nowhere to be seen in the sea of endless white._

And, at that very moment, Iúlwen’s twilight eyes opened and she drew in a painful breath. There was something heavy in her chest, as if someone placed a terrible weight there, and it ached sharply. She touched it with a tired hand, noting that there was a small hole where her fingers touched, and breathed once more. The moment she prodded the wound was the moment the pain worsened, so she dropped her hand, which fell onto soft material. Her brows furrowed and then she realized she was in a bed of some kind, her head elevated by a small pillow. Fisting the cotton sheets, she pushed herself up into a sitting position, another wave of pain shooting through her.

‘Ugh,’ she hissed through her teeth, holding her chest.

That dream certainly didn’t make things any better. She hardly knew what to call it. Was it a memory? Or was it simply that, a dream? She did not see her _father’s_ face, but everything held a sense of familiarity. The village she kept referring to… Fréa? Her parents were the nobility there, in this dream. She was nobility there and honored as a new hunter. She was going hunting in the White Mountains with her father and…! Líthonion, that elf who stumbled upon her in the woods.

Then it all came to her. _He_ was the one that put this hole in her chest. _He_ tried to have her dead! The arrow… The pain came in heavy pangs, pounding into the wound like a heart against a ribcage. She groaned, tightening her hold on the injury. It was bandaged, thankfully, but did not hurt any less.

She would get revenge, she swore, but after she healed.

And, with that, she looked about her, though the pain did not ebb. The room was tiny and dark, the moonlight coming in through the window on the other side her only source of light. There were papers, old mail she supposed, scattered about on the floor and an old wooden chair in the corner, bookshelves, and a desk. Everything, it seemed, but the papers, was tucked into prim and proper condition, clean and crisp. And her door had been closed, as if to ward off any curious hobbits – _or elves_ , she thought bitterly. A sliver of candlelight came through under the door and this piqued her interest. Perhaps, whoever owned this hole was still awake and, maybe, she hadn’t been out cold for too long.

With great care, she peeled the light blanket off of her and swung her legs over the side of the small bed, slowly pushing herself up. Another wave of pain. She breathed in sharply and pushed on her chest, biting her lip. If it was coming in waves, then it would cease, even if it were for only a short time. She gave herself a curt nod and hobbled to the door, felt around the circular panel, searching for the knob. When she found it, she twisted and pushed forward, the soft light filling her eyes. She could see a curving hall that led to many rooms. There was a study on the left and another hall to the right, leading to a kitchen and a pantry which, in turn, led to a den. But that was all she could see from her vantage point.

She stepped out in the hall, her eyes narrowing on the kitchen, and continued forward. A long table stretched forward, a fire crackled, and a kettle was whistling. There were pots, jars, cups, mugs, all full of breads and cheeses, cookies too, on a sill just below a stained glass window. Plates were all stacked up or neatly placed in a china cabinet just outside the little room. As she passed the pantry, her eyes drifted to the braids of garlic hanging in the doorway. Sausages hung from a rod, wheels of cheese were set on shelves next to jams and jellies, ham on a table in the middle, dried herbs sat in bowls, and  onions were either hanging in the doorway or were grouped together in larger bowls. There was a huge lot of food. The hobbit living here was a hobbit without want for anything, she decided, returning her eyes to the kitchen. On the table, there were napkins and plates, salt and pepper shakers, and, above all else, something she had not noticed before; the very hobbit who owned this place, his hair a mop of curls and his fingers eagerly waiting to pick at his fresh fish as he squeezed a half lemon over it. He even had a fork in hand, oh so ready to take a bite. Her stomach gurgled when she looked at his plate: Carrots, potatoes, broccoli, and one whole trout with pepper and lemon.

How long has it been since she’d eaten something like that? She didn’t know, but it looked delicious. Her stomach growled once more and she trudged along to stand in the doorway of the kitchen, to which the hobbit looked up. His eyes were blue, she noticed, and he gave her a small smile.

‘Ah, you’re awake!’ he said, a genuine happiness in his voice. ‘The elf was certain you were a goner, but clearly you are not.’

Her brows arched in mild surprise. ‘What do you mean, sir?’

He laughed and shook his head at the _sir_ , his curls bouncing with his mood. ‘He brought you here and patched you up.’

She flinched slightly, feeling for her wound again. She touched it gently, eliciting a sharp breath, and allowed herself to relax. The pain had numbed if only for a while and the elf took care of her with the help of this hobbit. So, the offender wasn’t so cruel after all. She chuckled to herself.

‘Did he? That’s a surprise,’ she said. ‘What’s your name, little one?’

It was his turn for his brows to rise. ‘Little one?’ he said quietly, shaking his head. ‘My name is Bilbo Baggins. You’re… Iúlwen. The elf said your name was Iúlwen.’

‘So it would seem…’ she muttered. ‘May I sit with you?’

‘Ah! Yes, yes.’ He pointed with his fork to the seat just across the table from him, circling it in the air. ‘Why not there?’

She nodded at him and stepped around the edge of the table, climbing into the little bench-seat across from him. It was a tight fit, she decided, rocking from side to side until she got her legs crossed. ‘Thank you, Mr. Baggins.’

‘Oh, no, no. No formalities,’ he said, amusement in his voice. And then, ‘I, for one, am glad you’re all right! That injury, for what it is, is a nasty one and I’m deeply sorry you’d experienced such a thing.’

She blinked at him.

‘It is not your fault, dear hobbit. You needn’t worry for my health.’

He tilted his head and looked at her as if she’d gone mad. He was a kind hobbit.

‘Are you sure, Miss Iúlwen?’ he asked quietly.

‘Yes,’ she said definitely, eyeing Bilbo.

‘Well, would you like—‘

A pounding against the front door down the other hall resounded throughout the hole, interrupting Bilbo, causing her to jump and him to scrunch his face up in bewilderment. She looked at him and he looked at her, both of their eyes wide with confusion. Who could possibly be banging on the door at this time of night? Not that it was all that late, but… It wasn’t courteous. In fact, it was downright rude, especially here in the Shire! Bilbo stayed for a single moment longer before he stood up and maneuvered around the table, speeding down the hall.

‘I’ll only be a second, Miss Iúlwen!’ he shouted over his shoulder. She watched him scuttle about in his robe and chuckled to herself. He was a tiny thing!

When he opened the large green door, he gasped in surprise. She could not see why, but she saw a shadow looming in the doorway, the moonlight lengthening the shadow. Her brows furrowed. The shape was wide and only slightly longer than Bilbo’s shadow, but she could not figure out what the shape belonged to.

‘Ah, I’m very sorry to have kept you waiting,’ the hobbit said, his voice soft and shaky.

And then, a dwarf with a dark beard pushed into the hole, peeling himself out of his faded green cloak. He hung his cloak on the peg nearest the door and, with low bow, said, ‘Dwalin, at your service.’

Dwalin, Dwalin… Where had she heard that before?

She shook her head to clear it, focusing on the flustered look on Bilbo’s face, sending her heart out to him. The poor, poor creature.

‘And Bilbo Baggins…at yours,’ he mumbled, closing the door behind the sturdy dwarf.

 _Dwalin_ trudged down the hall, eyeing the plate of fish and vegetables Bilbo had made for himself earlier, never once paying any mind to Iúlwen. He was solid in his resolve. He would have that tantalizing fish. Her eyebrows knit together as she watched the heavy dwarf waddle his way over, climbing right into the hobbit’s spot where he would wolf down his dinner. It was a disgusting sight, the woman had to admit, as Dwalin stuffed his face with potatoes and the right half of the small trout. Lemon juice dripped into his beard as he ate, potatoes sticking to the hairs. A shiver shot down her spine and her eyes dropped to her feet, which were bare, mind you.

The dwarf’s loud chewing was all that could be heard as Bilbo joined them, sitting beside Iúlwen. They exchanged uncomfortable glances and slight frowns.

‘What are you frowning at, woman?’ Dwalin barked, spitting out a few chunks of food. It took every bit of strength in her body to keep herself from gagging.

Bilbo chuckled nervously. ‘Frowning? Who’s frowning?’

The dwarf looked right at her and she met his eyes firmly. She would not be intimidated by an animal, she swore.

‘You!’ he jeered, pointing a thick finger at her.

But she only raised an eyebrow, crossing her arms.

‘I do that a lot, _dwarf_. Now put your finger down before I cut it off,’ she snapped, reaching down to her – but she didn’t have her boots. There was no sheath with the dagger inside, no cool Elven blade. She cursed herself for not realizing it sooner.

‘Empty threats, silly woman,’ Dwalin laughed crudely, wolfing down the rest of the hobbit’s dinner.

 _Swine_ , she wanted to say, but she opted to bite her lip instead.

The ring of a bell could be heard and Bilbo let out a sigh of slight annoyance as he removed himself from the table, returning to the door. Iúlwen ran her fingers through her stringy black hair and leaned forward, placing her elbows on the table, her light eyes narrowing on the fire behind Dwalin. It was a playful flame, popping and crackling along the bottom of what she assumed to be an empty kettle or pot. The fire reminded her of herself, as she could be a playful sort but, also, she was quick to harm those she did not trust, be it with a knife or her tongue. She scowled inwardly and perked her ears as the name Balin floated into them.

When she turned, she was greeted by an old dwarf with rosy cheeks and a great white beard, his arms open wide. ‘Ah, Miss Iúlwen, it’s been a long time, lass.’

Her eyes were as wide as the plates on the table and a smile was spread across her face like butter. ‘Balin!’ she shouted, scrambling from her spot and right into the dwarf’s arms. ‘It hasn’t just been a long time. It’s been far too long!’

‘Aye, it has.’ He embraced her fondly, patting her back, and let her go, giving her a playful wink. ‘How’ve you been, lass?’

‘I could be better, my dear friend. An elf got me in the chest with an arrow not a few hours ago,’ she exclaimed, pulling the collar of her cloth tunic down just enough for Balin to see the bandages. This spurred a frown and he nodded slowly, gently removing her hand from her shirt. It was clear to her now that her old friend strongly disliked the sight of an injury on her.

‘We’ll get him, lass,’ he said quietly before politely pushing past her. Then, in a louder and much more joyful cry, ‘Dwalin, my brother!’

The dwarf mentioned gave a hearty laugh and rose to meet Balin, their thick arms thrown around each other as if they’d not seen each other many years. They laughed and held each other until, finally, suddenly, they butt heads as hard as they seemed able, earning a quiet squeal of imagined pain from Iúlwen. They continued their chuckling till something sparked their interests and they found themselves swarming into the pantry. She could hardly believe the behavior of dwarves and decided not to deal with any of it, stepping into the den just outside the kitchen. There was a fire in here, too, she noted, taking the opportunity to stand right in front of it, bathing in its heat.

Her cloth pants and tunic warmed quickly and her skin crawled even more so with another rough set of bangs upon the green door. It took her a moment to muster the courage, but she walked down the hall to the round green door and, with that mustered courage, wrapped her fingers around the brass knob, twisted, and pulled.

‘You must be Mr. – ‘ the dark-haired dwarf from earlier that afternoon started, stopping himself almost immediately. Her eyes went wide and she cleared her throat, each breath she took growing more and more painful and strained each time. He was almost as surprised as she was, his smile shriveling into a confused grimace.

‘That’s not a hobbit,’ said the blond standing beside him.

She bit her lip, her grip on the knob tightening considerably. She had not expected to see either of them so soon. Actually, she didn’t expect to have seen them ever again after her encounter with Kíli in the woods. She swallowed what felt like a massive glob of her own saliva before introducing herself.

‘I-I am Iúlwen and I am most definitely not a hobbit,’ she said, her voice akin to that of a whisper.

‘Iúlwen? Are you an elf?’ said the blond, his voice low and accusatory.

She bit her tongue, shaking her head slowly.

‘I am human,’ she said, recalling the dream she’d had. She could use that, lie to them. She would have to. ‘I lived in Fréa along the White Mountains.’

‘Oh, well, in that case! The name’s Fíli,’ the blond greeted, a smile etched onto his face. ‘And this is my brother,’ he threw an arm around the disgruntled Kíli’s shoulders, ‘Kíli.’

‘It’s nice to meet you both,’ she murmured.

‘At your service,’ they both said, the blond with glee, the brunette with bewilderment, bowing lowly.

‘Ah, erm, come in. I’m sure Bilbo and I can make accommodations for you.’

Fíli smiled in earnest and shouldered past the tiny woman, pulling small blades from out of his fur coat and trousers, tunic and boots. He tossed them all onto a small chest just beside the door, scraping his boots on its side, and nodded his head once to her before heading down the hall to the kitchen, soon finding Dwalin, Balin, and an infuriated Bilbo, who was rambling about them wasting his food and not expecting company.

Meanwhile, Kíli just stood there, staring at Iúlwen with all the confusion in the world anyone could have ever thought possible. His brows were drawn together and his mouth hung open, bright white teeth contrasting with his trim black beard. She felt herself shiver in front of him and, slowly, she stepped away from the door, her eyes falling to her feet. His eyes were fierce, she thought, as he stared at her in shock. She truly had not expected this and the fact that they were both standing there in the doorway drove her mad. Absolutely mad. A small piece of her rolled over in her chest and sank deep into her belly – guilt. She’d threatened him for his _name_ and now he was standing before her, mortified, possibly afraid she might do it again. Or, perhaps she was wrong…

‘I am sorry for pointing arrows in your face,’ she said softly, her eyes rising to meet his. ‘I did not mean-‘

‘Don’t worry about it, miss,’ he answered, holding a hand up to silence her, a small smile inching across his face. ‘May I come in?’

‘Ah, yes.’ The woman waited for him to pass her before she closed the door behind him.

‘I see Mr. Balin and Dwalin are already here,’ he said cheerfully, dropping his bow and quiver onto a chair in the den as he eagerly walked forward into the kitchen.

‘They arrived only moments before you, Mr. Kíli.’

A warm laugh left the princely dwarf.

‘You needn’t call me that, Miss Iúlwen,’ he scolded kindly, turning his head towards her, smiling.

She grinned. ‘And you needn’t call me _miss_.’


	6. Of Dwarves and the Redblade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for sticking with me for so long! I know that it’s been slow. I mean, I’ve only written five chapters and I’ve only just made it to the point in the story where all the dwarves come piling in. And don’t you worry about how she met Balin. I will explain that – and also throw in a little bit of some budding friendship-ness between Iúlwen and Kíli. This chapter will be a fun one, I think. Again, thank you so much, my lovely readers!
> 
> Another thing, school is starting back up for me tomorrow, so I will be updating every Sunday starting today.
> 
> Oh, and about Iúlwen’s eyes… I keep saying ‘light’ and ‘twilight’ when I describe them. Let me clarify what I mean: Her eyes are a grayish honey brown. And I will also be drawing her really soon for you all to see her! ^.^

Iúlwen eyed Kíli from her end of the table, watching him smile and laugh and pound down a tankard or two of ale, joking with his brother and Dwalin as Balin threw bread and sausages onto the table. He reminded her of her father with his dark hair and scruffy beard, the dark eyes under his brows, and the joyful smile playing his lips was rugged and smart, as if at any moment he could spit some witty remark or tell a terrifying story. His leather armor was almost the same as her father’s, too. It was blackened leather, intricate designs down the front, and a dark blue cloak was tied around his neck. Her father wore a royal blue cape. That’s what he was known for.

And they called _him_ the Blueblade.

Her face scrunched up after a moment of comparing the two. How did she know her father looked like that? How did she know what they called him? _How_? She had no other knowledge of the man in the blue cape, nor was her knowledge based on any fact. She’d seen him in a dream, not in person. And even then, she’d caught a glimpse of his cape, not his face. But, she somehow knew it was…

She sighed quietly, shaking her head. She hoped her memories would return and her dreams would end as she stared at the dwarf across the table. Bilbo was sitting right next to him, slumping with an annoyance she never knew hobbits could have, his elbows on the table. He was quite unhappy, what with having so many visitors. Most of them were unexpected and very much acted like pigs, stuffing their faces with Bilbo’s food, drinking his ale, moving his furniture, throwing plates at each other like animals. In no time at all, they’d taken over his kitchen, yelling and laughing and joking like children. Animalistic children. Even Kíli had been acting a fool!

‘So! How did you meet my brother Balin, woman?’ the messiest of the dwarves, Dwalin, shouted at her, bits and pieces of bread and cheese flying from his mouth and landing on the table, ale dripping from his beard. She gulped down a gag and glared at the dwarf.

She really just did not like him. He was rude and thoughtless, spitting crumbs and chewed food all over the table.

His question was a jab, his tone seeming to drive home the point that she was a dirty human – or worse, an elf. But why he would think she were Elvish made little sense to her. Was it her pale skin and dark hair? Or did he somehow manage to sneak a peek at her armor and arms, wherever those may be? Or, perhaps, Bilbo mentioned that Líthonion, the elf, had brought her here and bandaged her wound? Maybe, she thought, he just didn’t like her. It was a mutual distaste. And why, of all things, would he ask about how she met Balin?

She sighed inwardly. Watching her greet him like a relative not seen for years must’ve made his skin crawl and only now had he decided to ask. She shook her head slowly, swallowing.

‘I met him in Bree not two years ago,’ Iúlwen started, her voice low. She hadn’t particularly wanted to speak, given that everyone was being so loud, but Bilbo’s eyes lit up and he looked at her, curious. Dwalin showed little interest, but stopped chewing long enough for her to continue. Balin was still fishing around in the pantry while Fíli and Kíli chugged another tankard of ale. It was quieter now. ‘He was in for a trade and he’d seen me, armed to the teeth, I suppose.’

She chuckled as Dwalin shook his head in disapproval.

‘You see me know in cloth, but you’ll see, Dwalin,’ she snickered. ‘He needed an escort back to the Blue Mountains and I happily obliged. Tis all.’

‘Not a very exciting story.’

‘No, no, but we did run into a troll. It was an odd event, seeing as how trolls haven’t come down from the North in many years.’

‘A troll, eh? That is strange,’ the dwarf said, shoveling another piece of bread into his mouth.

‘Yes, but, obviously, I took it down. Otherwise, Balin and I wouldn’t be here right now.’

‘That’s right, brother!’ the dwarf mentioned confirmed from the pantry, throwing his voice.

Iúlwen chuckled once again, leaning forward with her elbows on the table. It was a rather uneventful story, she agreed, aside from the encounter with the troll. It was a gnarly creature, thinner than any she’d ever seen, not that she’d seen too many, and his fingers were fat and long with scars and dry patches all over. His teeth stuck out of his mouth like sore thumbs and his eyes were crossed. He was a clumsy thing, too, tripping over his own feet. At one point, he’d actually fallen on the fire pit he’d made. The memory made her laugh a little loudly for her. It was funny to see a fearsome creature practically kill himself.

Two tankards slammed down on the table, followed by a pair of deep breaths and cries of pride. Her eyes drifted over to the two drinking brothers and a smile swept across her face. They were quite the lively set of brothers, laughing after they’d taken in as much air as they could. Kíli scratched his chin and Fíli went to pour himself another ale, the liquid from his previous tankard dripping down his beard. The dark-haired brother seemed to feel her eyes on him and his smile shrank, his own eyes meeting hers.

The look they shared was uncomfortable at best, unexpected and… _lost_. She couldn’t get used to the fact that he was right here in front of her, drinking and laughing and joking, as if nothing had happened between them in the Old Forest just outside of the Shire, as if she hadn’t threatened his life with her arrows in his face. He’d told her not worry about it, but still, she felt guilty, if only just a little.

She wanted to apologize again, but something inside her stopped her from doing so and, instead, she gave him a small smile. _Just be pleasant_. He dipped his head once and he returned her smile with a gentle grin. Perhaps they could talk about it later? She wanted to apologize. She _would_ apologize.

‘How was your ale?’ she asked, pointing at his empty tankard.

‘It was mighty fine, if I do say so myself! Mr. Boggins has excellent taste,’ the dark-haired dwarf said cheerfully, his mispronunciation of the hobbit’s name earning him a scowl from him. She laughed quietly to herself.

‘That’s Mr. _Bag_ gins!’ Bilbo corrected, crossing his arms over his chest.

‘Sorry,’ Kíli mumbled, his smile intact.

‘I’m glad you enjoyed your drink, Mr. Kíli,’ Iúlwen said.

His brows furrowed and he shook his head. ‘I told you not to call me that.’

She shrugged, taking in a light breath. ‘I know.’

‘Miss Iúlwen is quite the polite one, she is!’ Fíli howled, slamming his full tankard on the wooden table. Ale splashed out and dripped down the sides of the tankard, pooling at the bottom. That would certainly ruin Bilbo’s table, she thought.

‘Aye, laddie, she is,’ Balin called from the head of the table. She hadn’t noticed his presence, the fact causing her to knit her eyebrows together. Was she already going soft? No, no. She couldn’t possibly have been. ‘Well, at least, when she thinks she should be. Otherwise, she’s a playful lass,’ he laughed, giving her a wink.

She smiled. Balin was a gentle dwarf.

Fíli and Kíli both smirked as a laugh threatened to burst out of them, thoroughly amused.

‘I would like—‘ Kíli started, a heavy banging on the door interrupting like Dwalin did Bilbo when he arrived, the sound reverberating off the door and echoing through the halls and rooms of the little hobbit hole. Only Bilbo and Iúlwen jumped, startled by the sudden intrusive sound, while the others simply laughed and clapped their hands.

‘There must be rest of them, by sounds of it,’ Dwalin shouted, throwing his hands up in amusement.

‘You’re right! Mr. Baggins, go answer the door, and quick!’ Fíli commanded, a bright and eager smile on his face.

With great reluctance, Bilbo crawled out of his seat and trudged to the big green door, any remaining feelings toward his well-cooked meal having been stamped out in this very moment. He was very tired now, without having eaten a thing, and he most certainly tired of all of these blasted dwarves! Iúlwen could sense his displeasure as she watched him go quickly.

His fingers wrapped around the brass handle, twisted, and pulled and, much to his horror, a gaggle of dwarves came rolling in, all in blue, green, and brown hoods with great black and red beards. Their hairs were braided and long, hanging past their belts. Some bore axes where others were equipped with swords or hammers. All of them wore surprised and upset expressions, rolling about on the floor in a large mass, and not a one of them seemed at all happy to be there, even as they chuckled and squealed with obviously feigned amusement. The sight made Iúlwen want to giggle, but she bit her tongue and forced herself not to.

They would see it as rude. Or, maybe, they wouldn’t, but she wasn’t willing to take the chance.

‘Good evening, Bilbo,’ an old voice bellowed over the sound of the heap of dwarves. A long shadow stretched over them in the doorway, the moonlight wrapping around the figure and shining in through the doorway.

As the new bunch of dwarves rolled around, they got up one by one, shrugging out of their cloaks and throwing their swords and axes this way and that, some landing on chests in another hall while others were caught on pegs in the entryway. Mud was tracked all over the floor until one of them had the _brilliant_ idea to wipe their feet off on the mat. All the while, Bilbo was silently fuming, fists at his sides as he boiled. It looked as if he were only moments away from bursting with anger. She couldn’t blame him. His hole was an absolute mess, now. But he didn’t and instead let his eyes wander back to the owner of the shadow, a frown slapped on his face.

‘Gandalf,’ he seethed, his brows furrowed.

Then, the newest additions to the throng in the hobbit’s kitchen and pantry began to introduce themselves, their voice pointed in Iúlwen’s (and Bilbo’s) direction. The first one, a stout dwarf with gray-white hair and a beard with a twist, bowed politely, happily saying, ‘Dori, at your service,’ and hobbling away. The second, a scraggly little thing with dull red hair, stepped up and bowed slightly, his blue eyes alluding to a certain amount of simplicity as he greeted, ‘I’m Ori,’ and scuttled into the kitchen. The third, another stout creature with dark red hair in three mounds atop his head and a long beard, bowed like the rest and huffed, ‘Nori,’ waddling down a hall, looking as if he’d been searching for the toilet. The fourth, one with a white beard and a mane of light gray hair holding some strange _thing_ up to his ear, came forward and pulled the odd thing out of his ear, bowing, ‘Oin,’ and followed the thin one who’d identified himself as Ori. The next dwarf was broad and stocky, his beard a deep and fiery red with metal tangled about in it, and was reluctant to bow and greet them, but did so, ‘Gloin,’ he said and trudged into the pantry. The sixth, a rather rotund dwarf with what looked like a rope of amber hair circling his belly, stared with wide little eyes as he bowed, throwing out a, ‘Bombur,’ and following Gloin like a lost puppy. The seventh looked as if a skunk was pasted onto his face and a chunk of metal was sticking rather _noticeably_ out of his forehead. He didn’t say much of anything, as it all was gibberish anyway, and the dwarf behind him, a thin fellow with a hat that stuck out on either side of his head, had said, ‘Oh, that’s Bifur!’ while the skunk-beard trailed after the fat one. ‘And I’m Bofur,’ he greeted, stepping into the kitchen. The wizard had slowly come in behind them, leaning his staff behind the door in the corner and his hat on a peg next to one of the cloaks belonging to one of the dwarves, a hand on Bilbo’s shoulder. He seemed to have been whispering something, as Iúlwen could not hear it, and he and the hobbit hobbled off deeper into the hole.

She assumed that Gandalf wanted to explain things to him in the peaceful silence in the back of hole, seeing as how the poor Halfling was about to lose his temper. There were so many dwarves piled into his home – dwarves he didn’t know. Otherwise, he would’ve been fine with, she thought, if he knew them. But he didn’t.

It was odd, for Iúlwen, to see so many dwarves occupying the same space, twiddling about with food in their mouths, laughing and shouting like children. Some swept past her and others sat beside her, full plates slapped down on the table. Ale painted the wood and mushed bread and other foodstuffs were crammed into the cracks going down the middle of it as all the dwarves ate and drank and howled and chuckled. They were a lively bunch, all of them, together. Once everyone had found a place to sit and all was silent, Iúlwen figured it best to introduce herself, given that everyone’s eyes were planted firmly on her.

Another thing she hadn’t expected: their curiosity. Of course, they came in and gobbled up the food like a tornado after their own introductions, all of them focusing on all the food the hobbit had in store, sparing Iúlwen only their names. But, now, their eyes were on her, ready for her to say something. All but Balin, Dwalin, and Kíli were waiting for her to say something, anything, their eyes expectant, eyebrows raised. It was strange how quickly it all transpired…

With a short breath and small gulp, her light eyes narrowing on a tankard of ale across the table, she started, ‘I am Iúlwen of Fréa, huntress and warrior of Rohan.’

There were nods of acknowledgement from all the dwarves except from Kíli, whose eyes were staring into his tankard, entranced by the foam of the ale threatening to bubble over the top. He did not look at her, a fact that made her frown.

‘Oooh, the famous missing Lady of the Isle of Misfits,’ the one with the strange hat, Bofur, mused, scratching his chin. He’d been wearing a knowing smile since she’d said her name.

What was that about being the _missing_ lady? Her brows knit together and she wondered for a moment. If what Bofur said was true, then her dream would’ve been a memory. She would have finally remembered something and, if that were the case, she’d be a few steps closer to recovering her memories – and returning to her former self. This was something she’d been wishing for, for a long time.

‘She’s a lady?’ Fíli piped up, amusement a constant in his voice. ‘You’re a lady and you’re a huntress and a warrior? How can that be?’

‘A lady?’ Kíli echoed, his attention stolen by his brother. He seemed to be avoiding her, really. She sighed. ‘And a huntress? _And_ a warrior? So, she’s like us?’

‘No, Kíli,’ Bofur said, a chuckle chasing his words. ‘She’s a lady, sure, but she’s not dirty and she certainly doesn’t have a beard!’

‘I can quite speak for myself, Mr. Bofur,’ Iúlwen chided gently, crossing her arms over her chest. ‘I don’t need anyone speaking for me. For all any of you know, I could be dirtier – and harrier.’

‘Spoken like a true Lady of Fréa,’ came Balin’s warm-hearted exclamation, laughing. ‘Lady Iúlwen is the first of the Ladies of her family to have not been named Fréa, you know.’

She looked at him. ‘I am?’

‘Aye, lass, you are. Not too long ago, I happened upon one of the hunters hailing from Fréa and I asked him about it.’

‘What did he tell you, Balin?’ she asked him, curious as to what the hunter could’ve said. He might’ve been kin, a brother perhaps, or a friend.

There was a thoughtful silence then and the old dwarf drew his brows together. He opened and closed his mouth several times, trying to find the words.

‘He told me that the daughter of the Lord and Lady of Fréa had gone missing and rumor of a woman without a memory spread among the villages of the Bree-lands,’ his voice had grown softer and quieter, as if trying to be kind about the sudden gush of information. ‘He told me she had long dark hair and pale skin, a suit of red leather armor, and a red longbow, and that her name was Iúlwen Redblade.’

‘ _She’s_ the Redblade that’s been terrorizing the Old Forest and the road to the Shire?’ Kíli asked, surprise ever present in his expression.

Was it really so shocking? Her lips twisted into a frown and she curled into herself, pulling her knees up to her chest. She’d been threatening and killing many people on that road and for a purpose not entirely agreeable. A lot of people had fallen at her feet because she _thought_ they’d been cruel to a woman or a child, because she _thought_ they’d lacked honor and duty, because they _trespassed_ in a territory that, admittedly, was not her own. _She_ had been the cruel one, merciless and cold. The only people who ever got away from an encounter with her were hobbits, elves, and a mere handful of dwarves. She was just as self-righteous as some of the worst of all the awful people she’d come into contact with. Guilt was a rather new sensation, but she’d been feeling it ever since Kíli came knocking.

And he was staring at her right now, intrigued by what he’d heard.

 _Would it pain you to not to look at me?_ She wanted to say it. Having all eyes on her was a feeling less than pleasurable and it had been bothering her for a while now.

‘Yes, lad,’ Balin sighed.

‘She doesn’t look it,’ Dwalin jeered. ‘A wee child at best.’

‘Oh, I assure you, Dwalin, I’m much faster and stronger than your slow mind may think,’ she hissed, her mood turning sour. Insults and guilt were not things she was equipped to handle appropriately.

‘Now, now, Iúlwen, that’s no way to speak to your company,’ a deep voice bellowed behind her. It was old and powerful and a gnarled hand clapped onto her shoulder. Her brows furrowed and she looked up, the thick eyebrows and dark gray hair of Gandalf the Gray in view. His eyebrows were arched and his lips were pulled into a half-smile. He climbed into the bench and sat beside her, chuckling to himself.

All the dwarves cracked smiles – Kíli especially. Iúlwen frowned deeply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter ate a part of my soul. It was really hard to write for some reason. And it’s not even that good.


	7. More Like a Grocer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for being a couple days late on the last update. Did you guys like it, at least? It’s cool if you didn’t. I don’t mind. It was crap anyway. This week’s update will be better. Yay, Thorin! I don’t like him but I know a lot of other people do sooooo yayyyyy. I’m sorry it’s taking so long to write out the introductions. I’ve been including a lot of Iúlwen’s personal history and I don’t intend to stop. Also, I know you’re all probably wondering where Líthonion ran off too, but don’t worry. He’ll pop up eventually. Just not in this chapter. One more thing, I think Iúlwen has a lot of personality even though it’s a little on the generic side (she’s really temperamental), and Kíli is really awkward. It’s entertaining. I’m changing the rating of this story, also. Soooooooo yeah. To Mature. You’ll see why eventually.
> 
> If anyone wants to see Iúlwen, please visit my Instagram @ starlightmemory. I hope you like what I’ve drawn so far! My doodles are lame but when I get to actually draw, I’m confident in my work.
> 
> Also, I put together a little bit of a playlist for this fic, which I will include in next week’s update. Just had to throw that out there. And I’ve decided to follow the movie when it comes to the characters and some scenes, but I will still be using the book to refer to. I won’t be adding nearly as many songs as dear Tolkien, however. I will add a few, but not too many. It gets difficult to navigate for me. Sorry for another super-long note!
> 
> Enjoy!

A heavy, calloused hand slowly pushed a ceramic yellow plate full of sausage, potatoes, bread, cherries, and ham across the table, as if trying to be sneaky or, perhaps, thoughtful, and another did the same with a tankard of ale. It was most likely the last bit left, though why it was offered to Iúlwen was beyond her. She looked up at the two dwarves who pushed the food over and blinked at them, confused. A blond beard and a dark mane – the brothers. Her brows furrowed and she looked back down at her newly acquired food. As hungry as she’d been before, the dwarves who’d previously stuffed their faces completely destroyed her appetite and she wasn’t too sure a kind offering from the two princes of the only plate of food would fix that.

Or, you know, she could be lying through her teeth.

Her stomach gave a loud growl and it seemed to pulse with hunger, flopping and rolling like a tumultuous storm. It was uncomfortable, to say the least, and the potatoes and ham were of no help. Nor were everyone’s eyes, as they had all found her for the third time that evening, staring and staring. She feared they would stare at her until she picked up the fork sticking out of the buttered potatoes and the knife safely tucked inside a sausage and stuffed her face. She wanted to. She wanted to shovel everything into her mouth till she burst, but she didn’t. She wouldn’t allow herself to look like a wild animal. She swallowed her saliva instead, eliciting a quiet groan.

‘She’s so skinny,’ Fíli whispered, his voice drifting into her ears and making her look up at him. He eyed her in return as he sipped from his tankard.

‘Her face is so gaunt,’ Bofur piped in, pursing his lips.

‘She’s like twig,’ Ori said slowly, tilting his head at her.

‘Hard to believe she’s as strong as Balin says,’ Gloin huffed, raising an eyebrow in her direction.

‘Or as quick as Kíli says,’ Nori agreed.

‘I can see her being quick, but not strong,’ Dwalin grumbled, crossing his arms over his massive chest.

‘Fortunately for all of us, she’s quite a bit of both,’ Balin said firmly, giving the group of dwarves a stern glare.

‘She just might be. We have yet to see her strength for ourselves,’ Kíli added softly, quickly taking a swig of his ale.

‘She’s just as strong as any of you and much, much faster,’ Gandalf confirmed, one of his thick brows arching as he puffed on his pipe.

She was growing frustrated. They were all staring at her, talking about her as if she wasn’t there, and judging her speed and strength on only one factor – her _appetite_. So, because she had not eaten yet, that automatically meant she was weak and slow like a child? So, because she was thin, she was a twig? She shut her eyes tightly, brows furrowing. As much as she disagreed with them, she really did need to eat or else the wound in her chest wouldn’t heal properly, but if she ate, the pain would return. She shook her head slowly. She needed to eat.

Holding a hand up, she silenced the company and opened her eyes.

‘Would it kill any of you to talk _to_ meinstead of _about_ me? No, no, why don’t you all just stop speaking all together?’ she snapped, directing a sharp glare to each of them. ‘I am fast and I am strong and I _will not_ be talked about in this manner. I am a _lady_ , not a peasant. Mind your manners.’

There was a long silence before Balin started to chuckle. ‘A true lady of Fréa, indeed.’

Returning her attention to the mound of food before her, she swiped the fork and dug into the potatoes, pulling out a bit too large for her mouth. But she would eat it. She’d be damned if these dwarves would continue to judge her over her appetite. She eyed the bite she gathered for a moment before taking it, bits of potato slipping down from the corners of her lips. The mash was quite delicious, if a little cold. She swallowed, disregarding the bits at her lips.

A round of laughter exploded from the dwarves and Iúlwen just shrugged in response, wolfing down her potatoes and moving on to the bread, which she grabbed with her tiny fingers. She was going to eat whether they laughed or not.

‘She’s got a beard, lads!’ Bofur shouted, clapping his hands together, amused.

Everyone cackled and giggled, chuckled and squealed as she ate, taking long swigs of their ales and slamming their tankards onto the table. They shouted and sang, happy and entertained.

Iúlwen by now had eaten up half her plate, but the rate at which she was eating was starting to prove most painful. Her eyes watered as she swallowed a bit of ham, the small wound in her chest firing into a dull ache. She pressed on. She _had_ to eat in order for her body to heal properly as she slept that night. She took another bite of the ham, the ache sharpening.

‘Hey, her eyes are watering,’ Kíli noted suddenly and everyone turned their head to look at her once more.

‘I wonder why?’ Fíli said with a small shrug of his shoulders.

She moved on to the cherries, gobbling them up like a wolf does sheep. The water in her eyes spilled over her left lower eyelid, slipping down her cheek as she ate. Her chest was sore and the pain was only getting worse. It was hurting just so much…but still, she kept eating, turning her attention onto the sausage.

‘She’s forcing herself to eat,’ Balin exclaimed, his eyes gentle and sad. ‘Lads, she took an arrow to the chest and she’s weak from under eating.’

‘An arrow? Who shot it?’ Kíli asked, his fist pounding into the wood of the table.

She took one solid bite of the spicy sausage and couldn’t eat any longer, another tear streaming from her eye, this time the right one. A fire erupted in her throat and her tongue started to burn, the wound in her chest pulsing with the sore, agonizing pain. She groaned wiping her face clean of the food and tears with her hands, huffing, leaning her head down on the table. She couldn’t handle it.

‘An elf, lad,’ Balin answered quietly.

It was nice that the youngest dwarf and the oldest dwarf cared about the situation, the wound festering in her chest. She took in long and short breaths, each one bringing with it a wave of achy pain. She slapped her hand onto the wound and pushed her palm into it. The pressure numbed the burning ache slightly and, for a moment, she let her shoulders relax, taking in a long, slow breath.

That _damn elf_ did this to her. She’d sworn her revenge, but a part of her still felt guilty. His words were like knives, she thought, and he was throwing around all those accusations. They were truths, but…was it really any of his business? _No_. What she does in her spare time is for no one to poke around in. She did what she thought was right until he confronted her – and he made her feel _wrong_. She scowled at the thought of Líthonion.

‘What elf?’

‘The one that raised her,’ Gandalf explained, his voice slow and raspy with smoke. He chewed on the mouth of his pipe and looked about the company from under his eyebrows, his eyes small and focused. ‘The very elf that will be joining us on this quest.’

All the dwarves around the table bore expressions of disapproval, disbelief, and a very obvious level of underlying prejudice, and there were quite a few groans of displeasure. Kíli had been frowning deeply, his eyes hidden by his tightly-knit brows, and his fist was clenched around the handle of his empty tankard. Why _he_ of all the dwarves was so frustrated was certainly beyond Iúlwen’s understanding, but, at the same time, she found his demeanor touching. Not a single soul aside from Balin had shown any form of concern or care for her in the last few years. Many men have thrown sideways glances, but never had they made the decision to _try_. Instead of looking at her, they could’ve at least gotten frustrated that someone, especially a woman, was alone and in constant danger, hardly eating or sleeping. But, no. They only gave her looks. She bit her lip in her own frustration, almost completely sure that Kíli was thinking the same.

‘Are you serious, Gandalf?’ Dwalin snapped, his hands flat onto the table. There was a very plain anger on his face.

‘Quite so. We need him and, as a company putting forth all the effort possible to reclaim your homeland, you will need all the help you can get,’ the wizard explained, his voice booming and full of an unquestionable authority. There was not a single ounce of amusement in him. ‘He will be helping our Lady Iúlwen reclaim her _memories_ , too, so bite your tongues.’

‘Aye,’ Balin piped in, nodding his head in agreement.

He was the only one that seemed to be accepting of the elf’s foretold presence in the company. Of course, he was still firm in his desire to help her _get him_ , surely. Perhaps he was only agreeing to be agreeable? The kind dwarf was the most personable one of them all!

‘You agree, Balin?’ Dwalin hissed in disbelief, his head cocking sideways to look at his brother, who merely nodded and shrugged.

‘Has Miss Iúlwen forgotten something?’ a small voice questioned from the mouth of the kitchen. Little hands were shoving the hems of a cloth shirt into light brown pants and blue eyes searched the crowd in his kitchen for answers, a frown tugging at his lips. Bilbo was a fresh face against the multitude of dwarves, she thought.

There was a long silence then. Nobody spoke. Nobody ate or drank. Nobody moved. There was only silence.

It was uncomfortable.

She wanted to speak, to explain, but there wasn’t just one thing she couldn’t remember. It was everything. She couldn’t remember her family, her friends, Líthonion’s presence in her life, her mother’s face, the proposed happiness of her people, or anything else. All she could remember was a small bit about the history of her village and her father, but no more. She bit her lip. And she couldn’t tell anyone how those were the only things. They were just…there.

‘Everything, Bilbo,’ Gandalf finally said, dipping his head once in Iúlwen’s direction. She thanked him with a short nod and remained silent. He blew a cloud of smoke.

‘What’s everything?’ the little hobbit asked.

‘Well, a little more than nothing.’

Bilbo’s eyebrows shot up and he glanced at Iúlwen, confusion in his eyes. It was clear in his face that he couldn’t understand what the wizard had meant, his face screwing up. ‘But…what exactly is everything?’ he asked quietly.

‘Everything is everything, which is a lot more than nothing,’ Gandalf snapped without too much of a second thought.

Iúlwen frowned, clutching her chest. The pain had not left her. She’d only forgotten it was there, like she’d done everything else.

‘My lady,’ Fíli’s confident voice said softly, flowing into her ears. ‘Are you all right?’

There was a heavy round of knocks on the door, the sound drifting through the halls. She bit her lip, ignoring it, and let her eyes find Fíli’s, her brows knitting together. She wanted to shake her head, to nod, to cry, to hiss, but nothing came.

‘Iúlwen?’ Kíli whispered, his head tilted slightly with a world of questions in his deep brown eyes. His expression was the softest – his lips were drawn into a small frown, hands placed firmly around his tankard, and his face was riddled with…something. She couldn’t quite recognize what it was, but she knew it was there.

Another round of bangs on the door.

She looked at Kíli for a moment before glancing at Bilbo, noting his reluctance to answer his own door. She couldn’t blame him. The loud pounding was unpleasant and borderline rude when it comes to such peaceful creatures as hobbits. It might’ve put a spot of fear inside him, given that the noises were so blatantly disconcerting. Or even a bit of irritation, as the whole evening was wrought with unwanted and unexpected visitors gobbling up all of his food like starving dogs. He simply stood there in his place beside Gandalf and Balin, who exchanged short nods, and stared down the hall. She supposed it would be good for her to leave the table and check things out for herself, let Bilbo take a rest from dealing with strangers. She peeled herself out of her seat and stood, wobbling slightly.

It took her a moment to balance herself, the pain in her chest roaring to life once again, but once she straightened, she tightened her grip and started walking. She passed by the fire and the desk in the den, the knives and hammers strewn about in the hall, the cloaks haphazardly thrown on the walls, and she came to stand before the green door that which all the dwarves gathered in the kitchen had come through. It seemed to loom before her, dark and heavy in the dim candlelight. She wondered who could be behind it, as the knocking was too loud and forceful for Líthonion, who was supposed be coming along on this quest Gandalf had organized.

A massive hand wrapped itself around the brass handle.

She looked over her shoulder and gasped softly, her eyes meeting the youngest of the dwarves’. Kíli only smiled at her, pulling the door open wide.

And, slowly, every dwarf filed into the hallway, their jaws dropping if only a little. Her eyes twitched in bewilderment at Kíli’s smile-turned-awe-inspired-inhale and everyone else’s gaping, turning her eyes forward to meet the eyes of the son of Thror. He was built like a stallion, strong and broad like the very sword tied to his hip, with a mane of long, salt-and-pepper hair and intense, weary eyes. His name left her lips on the tail of a soft sigh.

‘Thorin.’

His eyebrows rose and a smirk pulled at the corners of his thin lips. He dipped his head to her and to everyone else gathered at the door.

How she’d known his name was hardly a mystery. Rumors had been spreading like wild fire and someone, for some reason, wanted his head. She was tempted at one point to seek him out and kill him, but ultimately decided it would’ve been too much trouble and the seclusion of the Old Forest was far more appealing than _that_. She did not know _who_ wanted the head of the King of Erebor, nor had she known what they were offering aside from gold. How much, she didn’t know. Only, they were offering it. And now, here he was.

It was a little more than just surprising.

‘Had it not been for the mark upon the door, I would not have made it. I’d already lost my way – twice,’ Thorin Oakenshield bellowed lowly, swinging a bag around and off of his shoulder, dropping it in the doorway as Kíli gently pulled Iúlwen back and he stepped inside. His eyes roamed the company before him and the walls adorned with equipment, eyebrows raised higher. It was as if he were criticizing them all one by one in his mind, especially her. And for what, being a woman? She could only assume. She bit her lip again.

‘Well, come in,’ came the voice of Bilbo from behind them all. He sounded small and nervous, just a hint of annoyance leaking into his voice, as he shouldered his way through the crowd. ‘And what do you mean there’s a mark on the door? I just had it painted!’

‘I put one there,’ said Gandalf, calm and amused.

A lengthy welcome for the King without a mountain and a conversation between the wizard and the King ensued. She felt a hand on the small of her back and she turned to face Kíli as he shut the door behind Thorin, eyeing him carefully. He didn’t look at her, though, opting instead to smile at his king. She didn’t think he realized it, but he’d pushed her forward against the door, his hands on either side of her head with his own bobbing with the movements of Thorin. She was uncomfortable between the door and the handsome dwarf prince, trapped between a rock and a hard place, and the wound in her chest was burning. She let out a small huff and lightly elbowed Kíli, trying to let him know where she was situated, but he still had not noticed.

Iúlwen wanted to growl at him, to smack him, just to get him to pay attention to her, but he was so enthralled by his king that nothing she could do would draw his eyes away from the strong Dwarven man. His posture was that of a majestic ruler, shoulders level with his feet, with his head held high in the air, as if he’d been staring down his nose at them all – like they were his faithful subjects. The only thing missing was a golden crown and an elegant robe, which would really drive home the point that he was most definitely a king, holding himself at such a level proved indicative of it, too. She frowned at him.

Thankfully, he had not seen her. Otherwise, she was sure he would’ve said something cruel.

She returned her attention to Kíli, who had yet to budge. Her brows drew together and she bit her lip, breathing in through her nose, the wound in her chest aching. She was going to kick him. That would get his attention and then, maybe he’d let her go. She just wanted him to stop touching her. Nobody touched her, ever, without her consent, which was another thing that had been bothering her. She bit her lip a little harder before rearing up her leg.

Well, she would’ve kicked him if a warm breath hadn’t drifted across her neck.

Every hair was standing on end and a shiver ran down her spine, her body quivering from the sudden breath. And, in that moment, she realized he was very aware of the situation, but only just. Slowly, she watched his hands peel away from the door and felt his warmth disappear from her body, a wave of cold air hitting her. As grateful as she was for him releasing her, she was freezing now, and a frown spread across her face. She hated how weird she was feeling.

‘Sorry, my lady,’ he said quietly so only she could hear him. She knew he didn’t mean to do it so she turned around and leaned against the door, giving him a knowing and forgiving nod. She was also glad that he’d chosen to keep his voice low, which drew no attention to them. A smile was plain in his eyes as he dipped his head and turned away from her, following the King and Gandalf into the den.

And, then, she wanted to apologize to him. She rudely elbowed him, threatened his life, and even though he told her not to worry about it, she felt that she should, because a simple _Don’t worry about it_ isn’t enough. A simple _I’m sorry for doing what I did_ wasn’t really an acceptable apology either. She sighed and twiddled her fingers for a short moment before pulling away from the door.

‘Hey, wait,’ she whispered to Kíli, lunging forward and grabbing his sleeve. She dragged him back into the hall, letting out another sigh. She looked up at him with her twilight eyes, searching for the proper words. He was staring at her with his eyebrows raised and a slight frown playing his lips. She knew he would probably reject her apology again and, she supposed, that was okay, but she still needed to apologize – especially if they were going to be traveling together. She steeled herself. ‘I’m really sorry for almost letting myself kill you in the forest. It’s just a really bad habit and I wanted –‘

‘How many times am I going to have to tell you to stop worrying about it?’ he snapped quietly. ‘I told you already, it’s okay, Lady Iúlwen.’

She frowned when he said her name. It sounded pleasant, like when Bilbo would say it.

‘But you deserve –‘

‘It’s fine,’ he said definitely, balling his hands into fists. Was he angry? She wasn’t sure, but she took a step back just in case.

There was a silence between them. She wanted to speak, he wanted to speak, she wanted to hide, he wanted to leave. She bit her lip and broke the silence.

‘I just wanted to give you a proper apology.’

‘Any apology is a proper apology.

‘How can you be like that? I could’ve killed you!’

‘But you didn’t.’

They glared at each other in their stubbornness before, finally, Kíli chuckled softly, relaxing his fist.

‘You’re very strange, Kíli of Erebor,’ she muttered, shaking her head and laughing along with him.

‘Come on, into the den with you,’ he commanded, assuming the position of a father figure. It made her laugh a little more and, then, she was happy he’d forgiven her.

All eyes were on them as they entered the room, all eyebrows raised and silent accusations were thrown, but all was quiet aside from the fire crackling in the fireplace. Even Thorin had tossed a few thoughts into the pot of accusatory glances, but otherwise let it be, giving Gandalf a stern look to which he merely nodded in return.

It was terribly awkward until the King spoke.

‘I trust you’d found our burglar, Gandalf.’

‘I did. Along with a skilled huntress and her handler,’ the wizard boasted, taking a long draw on his pipe.

‘A huntress and her handler, hm?’ Thorin wondered aloud, his voice low and carrying little interest. ‘You brought an elf and a woman who lacks memory of her own people.’

She frowned deeply at his words.

‘I brought you _help_ , and you will take it where you need it, Thorin Oakenshield!’ Gandalf shouted suddenly, his body growing taller and a dark shadow spreading from behind him. She stepped back, bumping into Kíli once again, and an increased sense of discomfort came over her. She did not like this.

The King simply looked at Gandalf, as if unfazed by his threatening new form, shaking his head from side to side in a blatant show of disapproval. Was it that she was a woman?

‘Where is the burglar?’

‘Bilbo. His name is Bilbo,’ Iúwen hissed right through her teeth, shooting the kingly dwarf a dark glare.

‘Where is this _Bilbo_?’ he asked, his brows knitting together at what she supposed was her _speaking out of turn_. It really was because she was a woman. She scowled at him.

‘Right here, Mr-uh-Thorin,’ the hobbit said nervously, squeezing himself into the firelight. He was a small thing in the shadow of the King, like a mouse caught in a trap, and he didn’t look at him for too long, letting his eyes drop to his hairy feet.

It was odd to see their host so intimidated, especially in his own home.

Thorin gave Gandalf an odd look that Iúlwen was otherwise unable to read and chuckled, shaking his head. ‘He looks more like a grocer than a burglar.’

She did not believe that the so-called King had any kind of right to insult the hobbit, especially since he wasn’t in a home that belonged to him. She bit her lip. She knew she would snap at him if she had the chance, possibly even plunge an arrow in his forehead. How rude he was! How rude they all were, making a mess of Bilbo’s lovely house and gobbling up all his food! She was infuriated now, her skin crawling as she resisted every urge to burst. She crossed her arms tightly over her chest, her blood boiling.

A light round of laughs erupted in the dwarves and she noticed that even Kíli was grinning.


	8. Green Dragon for a Blue Elf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm probably just going to do bulk uploads for this story instead of updating every week.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right, readers. I hope you enjoyed the lie I gave you for an update last week. I didn’t mean for it to be boring, but as I was approaching 10 pages, I didn’t feel like adding anything more. This chapter will include the lonesome Líthonion. He’s kind of been gone for the majority of the story so far, so I figured why not give you guys a moment with him? He’s a bit moody and I hate writing him, but… Anyway. I wrote a sex scene. It’s supposed to be all romantic but I need to revise it. Lol. I messed it up. Iúlwen is too forward. I mean, she has her moments, but with something so serious, she typically bites her tongue. You won’t get to read until much later on, though. Unless someone PMs me. I’m considering having someone else revise it, but, y’know, I don’t want anyone to use it. Just saying. Anyway… Remember that soundtrack I told you I’d be posting? BOOM. Right there. VV A lot of the music is going to be sad and I think that I’ll be adding more as time goes on. I’ll be posting them in the Author’s Notes as usual. 
> 
> 1\. Private Eye – Alkaline Trio   
> 2\. Running Away – Hoobastank   
> 3\. I Miss You – Blink-182   
> 4\. No, It Isn’t – +44   
> 5\. When Your Heart Stops Beating – +44   
> 6\. Under Serious Attack – Emery   
> 7\. Queen of Pain – Alkaline Trio   
> 8\. Number Five with a Bullet – Taking Back Sunday   
> 9\. Where Have You Been – Reel Big Fish   
> 10\. Dark Blue – Jack’s Mannequin   
> 11\. Be Still and Breathe – Ivoryline   
> 12\. Shinjitsu no Uta – DAI   
> 13\. Skinny Love – Bon Iver   
> 14\. It’s Okay – The Hush Sound   
> 15\. Make Me a Bird – Elektric People   
> 16\. Otherside Remix feat. Fences – Macklemore & Ryan Lewis   
> 17\. Deep End – Scary Kids Scaring Kids   
> 18\. You Are Familiar – Secret and Whisper   
> 19\. August – Abandon All Ships   
> 20\. Bigger Scars Make Better Stories – Search the City   
> 21\. An Ever-Growing Wonder – We Came as Romans   
> 22\. Time to Waste – Alkaline Trio
> 
> Just listen to these songs. You don’t necessarily have to listen to them while reading this, but I urge you to listen to them. It’ll help you get a feel for what’s going to happen in this story – and everything will stew in your head and it’ll make you sad. Like it does me. -.- 
> 
> I have also opened up an Etsy shop where I sell Lembas bread. :) Oh! And the part with Líthonion is likely going to move a bit quickly because I really don’t like writing him. I don’t really like his character.
> 
> Please, please, PLEASE leave reviews! I love seeing what you all have to say. I mean, I have an OC with a very generic personality. It’s nice to see what you guys think about her and how everyone acts and reacts and all that. Anyway, just leave some reviews! I’m eager to hear your opinions!
> 
> I’m really, really sorry for such a late update! The next one will be on time as always!
> 
> Enjoy!

It wasn’t that he’d let his arrow fly.

It wasn’t that she had a hole in her chest.

It was completely and entirely the fact that _he_ put it there.

She was the closest thing he would ever have to anything that resembled family and he put an arrow in the top of her sternum, watched her pass into unconsciousness from the pain and blood loss, and left her with a less than incompetent hobbit to heal. He couldn’t even take care of her himself! He made someone else do it. First, he nearly kills her and then, he drops her off on somebody’s doorstep with next to no regard for their feelings or traditions, whatever. He ran away from her when she needed him most – and that was the one thing he couldn’t deal with.

Her father, Afastr Blueblade, had taken him in for just that purpose: to heal and watch over his family, to be a guardian. He had been specifically instructed to do anything and everything in his power to keep Iúlwen safe, no matter the cost, no matter where she ran to – and he’d failed, broken his promise to the man who’d brought him into Fréa and fed him, bathed him, clothed him. And for what, a conflicting sense of purpose? He injured her, albeit on accident, basically lied through the skin of his teeth, and removed himself from the situation to avoid responsibility. How could he face the Lady of Fréa knowing what he’d done? Is this the thanks Afastr deserved? Líthonion knew very well that he did not. He frowned at himself and chewed on the mouthpiece of his pipe, breathing slowly.

But, truth be told, Iúlwen deserved nothing, no matter what promises were made.

She’d turned into a twisted creature, gnarled and thinned by a general lack of nourishment and interaction with people that weren’t inherently evil. She was small and weak. Her arms shook at her sides when he faced her and she was so…gaunt – and tired. The red leather armor seemed to hang off of her like vines on tree branches and the cloak he’d crafted for her had been dirty and stuck to her like jelly. She looked sick when he saw her, wielding the blades passed down to her by her grandmother, the former Redblade, when she was eight, which, subsequently, was the age she’d been thrown into Líthonion’s care. And, there, she was supposed to stay, safe and protected, but she was not. She was damaged beyond repair and he could do nothing.

She had escaped him roughly three years ago on their last hunt, into the western most peaks of the White Mountains. Vanished, like a ghost. He didn’t know when she’d left, but he was sure that it was sometime in the night and, no matter how long or where they searched, they could find no traces. At least, none they thought might be of her. Anything they found had belonged to the orcs they were hunting: pieces of maggot-infested bread, blackened leather, black blood splatters, animal carcasses, chains, and shackles. Nothing more and nothing less. He thought, at that time, that maybe she’d gone after them. But she would’ve come back. Perhaps she went a different direction to intercept them or, regrettably, had gotten stuck in a blizzard or mudslide. But they would’ve found her. Anything she could’ve possibly done had easy, simple answers chasing them. She could have done any number of things, _but she would’ve come back or they would’ve found her_.

His hunting party, which included Lord Afastr and a number of Fréa’s most skilled hunters and soldiers, tracked the orcs down to their camp closest to the Adorn and killed every one of them in a flurry of arrows and spears, searching the bodies and make-shift tents for anything that could point them in the direction of Iúlwen. In the process, Afastr was fatally injured, something no one in their party was equipped emotionally or otherwise to deal with, so they didn’t. The lord had taken a dirty, crooked sickle to the gut and was bleeding out before them, coughing and huffing words like, ‘I’m fine. Keep looking.’ Líthonion was the only one there with healing capabilities and, as hard as he tried, it was hopeless. His wound was too deep and there was too much damage done to his internal organs. If the elf had tried to pull the sickle from his belly and heal him then, he only would’ve died faster – and in more pain. He couldn’t let himself do that to the father of his Lady, the Lord of Fréa, the Isle of Misfits. As Afastr bled to death, he begged him to search for Iúlwen, to keep her safe, and to follow her wherever she went. His last breath leaving him, Líthonion hung his head in sorrow and gave his word. When he looked at the fallen lord, there were tears in his clouded eyes.

He called off the search and was met with no protest.

It took them a little over a week to return to the village, carting along with them Afastr’s body. Líthonion was set on giving him a proper burial, his heart a mess from the loss of both his friends. He could remember the pain of it as it tore through his body, filling him to the brim with guilt and despair. He blamed himself for everything that transpired in those days and weeks they were hunting and searching for the orc party and Iúwen. He’d lost his closest friend in a quest to find another.

For this, he found it difficult to forgive Iúlwen’s disappearance.

How could he, when she was the reason, in essence, Afastr was dead?

Gnawing on his pipe, Líthonion frowned deeply, leaning back in his small wooden chair. Aside from his internal debate and the frustrations it gave him, he was perfectly happy to sit in the relatively quiet, not-so-busy Green Dragon Inn, the little hobbits being quite accommodating. They’d questioned his presence at first, but hurried to get him everything he needed; ale, bread, muffins, meats, anything. They were more polite than what he was used to, given that the men in Bree were boorish and pig-like, and this was a nice change. It was more than a little unfortunate, however, that he had to hunch over in order to even enter the inn. The service did more than enough to make up for it, he supposed.

He looked over to the left to see a wall of barrels full of ale from the South Farthing and wine, stacked on top of each other with spigots rammed into them. A couple of hobbits were firmly planted at the bar, burying their noses into tankards of ale, and another couple were drinking wine from much smaller glasses, pinkies out and their eyes closed. Some bore smiles in their drunken stupors and others sneered, arms crossed and cups empty. It was an amusing sight, Líthonion decided, a tense chuckle leaving him.

Had thoughts of Iúlwen and Afastr not been plaguing his mind, he’d have been able to relax and enjoy the company of the young and old hobbits slamming their tankards and glasses on their tables more.

He still couldn’t believe that, after all this time, Iúlwen was only a few miles west of Bree, rushing through meadows and flying from tree to tree in an attempt to make her life more purposeful. He couldn’t understand how she’d forgotten everything up until the point Gandalf had said, but she did and that led to her searching for a purpose and her memories. He watched as her face betrayed her composure and shock came over her. He saw the twist of nature holding her tightly in its grasp, squeezing and squeezing until she turned into an animal. She was a canvas of loneliness, exhaustion, and hunger strewn about on hooks and wires passing for bones and hair, the glint in her twilight eyes dull and cruel. A creature buried in the arms of her mother, the trees, the grass, killing and hunting till the rumors spread and she was found.

Part of him wanted to believe that being found was what she had wanted.

But another part thought her stupid.                             

She was no better than the rest of the Race of Men, greedy and cowardly, blinded by her own ambitions, her own purpose. Men did not grow from children into _men_ ; they grew from men into _children_ , throwing their swords about at women and animals, stealing what they believed to be theirs. And she was the same, assuming it was her _right_ to take all those lives, to rob them of their second chances. The thought of it all left a bitter taste in his mouth and no amount of ale would be able to wash it down.

Líthonion sighed and puffed on his pipe, letting his dark eyes travel to the golden glass window to his right, the torches lining the roads shining rather dimly in the light of the full moon.

And then there was the subject of the ever-meddling Gandalf the Gray, member of the White Council alongside Lady Galadriel, Saruman the White, and Lord Elrond of Rivendell.

He set his jaw and narrowed his eyes, catching a glimpse of a lone firefly in the dark of a bush across the road.

The elf would have to meet him tomorrow, on time or not, and, as much as he appreciated Gandalf as a friend, he was little more than outright disgusted by the company he kept. Afastr always scolded him for his prejudiced way of thinking, but dwarves just as horrible as men – greedy and thoughtless. He couldn’t stand such things, given that his Ada always reminded him of his manners and his lineage, taught him always to bite his tongue when met with adversity or things he didn’t like, for respect and kindness would get you much further than the opposite. Of course, now he had to travel with such things and this simple fact burned a hole the size of a dinner plate in his belly.

‘That blasted wizard,’ he spat quietly to himself, his brows furrowing. How he hated the circumstances he was in…

Another firefly blinked around the first and the two seemed to dance in the air, buzzing with excitement and wonder.

He’d had enough for one day, he decided suddenly, setting a few coins on the small table and removing himself from his seat. Of course, when he stood, he had to bend forward till he could touch the floorboards with his hands. A most uncomfortable way to stand. Still, his eyes darted around in search of a flight of stairs and, when they were found, he eagerly climbed them and headed to the tiny room he’d rented when he first set foot inside the Green Dragon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m interested in seeing how he reacts to Iúlwen’s obvious show of fondness for Kíli. How about you? Leave your reviews! Tell me what you thought of the little soundtrack-so-far! Tell me what you thought about Líthonion’s internal battling! Thank you! Also, sorry for the crap-ass ending. See you next week!


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